


The Dragonborn - Book 2

by JFinne



Series: The Dragonborn - Books [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27153763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JFinne/pseuds/JFinne
Summary: Time goes on, as it always does, and with the passage of time comes change. Yes, times have changed; nervosity and fear are spreading throughout the Holds like a dark shadow. Citizens whispering powerful names: The Empire, Stormcloaks. But sides don't matter—they all fear for their children.So, Child of Hircine, tell me: how long 'till they begin whispering yours?
Series: The Dragonborn - Books [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982060
Comments: 21
Kudos: 10





	1. Riften

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the first chapter of my second book!  
> Earlier than I had expected.
> 
> First off, some warnings. This fic is M-rated for a reason.  
> (as I'm sure those who've read the first book knows.)
> 
> Throughout the book, there will be:
> 
> \- Blood and gore -  
> \- Graphic Violence -  
> \- Trauma -  
> \- Death -  
> \- Playing of the heart-strings -
> 
> And more similar things.  
> Sexual content is pretty much the only thing I won't touch, however, rape will be implied in this book. (Nothing graphical.)
> 
> If you can't stand these things, then this fic isn't for you.
> 
> Feel like commenting?  
> Greate! I love reading comments!  
> I really, really do!  
> And since I constantly seek to improve, I am always open to con-crit.  
> So if you notice repeating grammatical mistakes or simply feel there are things I can do better, don't be afraid to let me know.  
> You can even PM me if you don't want it to show up as a Review.  
> (I have very thick, Finnish, skin.)
> 
> Don't feel like reading my first book?  
> This is a new arc, so there's really no need for it in order to understand this book. I think you can still enjoy it.
> 
> But I still recommend you do read the first one as it has many strong events that will go with the MC throughout my series.  
> And it'll definitely help you understand the motives and personality of the MC.
> 
> That said, enjoy!

Riften. A city locked in eternal autumn. Tall buildings of dark, wet, birch atop streets of moist coble-stone.

How ironic, that the Rift was locked in eternal autumn, the very season nature itself decided to die. For if winter ever reached this place? There'd be nothing left but frozen corpses atop dead timber.

This is where people came when they had nothing left to lose: passers-by or losers. The cesspool of skum that Skyrim had to offer. The beds were cheap because it wasn't the rotten bed you paid for, every bed came with a woman: she's the one who took your coin. In this city, It took effort, name, or even more coin, to sleep without one.

I knew the city well.

This is the city where blacked-out drunkards decorated the dark alleyways with the company of cats chasing rats by their feet. This is the city where women, hiding knives, feared to walk alone day and night. Where people avoided strangers. The city where threats and bartering were one and the same. The city where kindness was frowned upon and care for others non-existent: everyone for themselves. _This_ is the city where locals either wore colored garments and jewels over fat bellies or rags and dirt over skinny legs and hollow faces.

"A Septim please," they begged, as they had done a thousand times before, brushing away whatever shame they had before them as they reached their bony fingers at you. Offering to pay with their own flesh for a single bite of bread.

The few, fat with coin, walked past them, noses too high to admit they lived within a city of poverty: what we don't see, we don't care to know.

The other… simply ignored them.

It wasn't ill-intended. This was simply the city where kindness either left you with a conned mind or a stolen purse, few could afford either. And even if someone nagged your pocked, the street urchins—abandoned pregnancies given purpose—were more slippery than the lower streets themselves: cracks, sever-pipes, and crevices everywhere.

Ironic, that it held The Temple of Mara—The Temple of Love—when the only _love_ it provided was the export of dark mead and greed for riches. Riches few were lucky, or rather, influential enough to get their hands on. Then again: every Nord loved their mead, in _this_ city, it sold better than the free water from the market well. No surprise.

But ugly as it's inside was, the city was _still_ beautiful: tall buildings of wood above a canal of clear water: birds and temples: resting over a lake made of a mirror—rich with fish—surrounded by lush forests of birch—rich with game—colored in deep fire and clear white sun.

Shame it had such a horrid personality.

Yes. If the city was a fair maiden, then she was a fair maiden of fair skin. Young. Flowers in her hair. Freckles around a button nose, and sparkling green eyes yearning for adventure. Dancing on bare feet in a see-through dress atop soft autumn leaves and dew-green moss. Teasing. Beautiful. Wild. Drunk in her youthful arousal. Drawing the eyes of greedful men, too low in stature to ever meet her yet unable to look away. And the envy of older women, for she reminded them of what they used to be but can never be again.

No wonder the practice of Dibella was strong here.

She drew in all. Gladly reaching her hands for them. But if you ever did choose to grab her hand, and join in her wretched dance of lust, you'd be swallowed by her corruption. Eaten by the sway of her life.

And you wouldn't even realize. Why else would the city guards ignore anything and _everything_ they chose not to see? Allow any crime to pass them by, as long as the culprit left them a share of their exploits? They did so, because, like so many others, they were already dancing in the palm of her hand. A hand, free of judgment. Comforting and safe. Yet void of morale.

This is the city beautifully corrupt with a wast difference in social status. There's no middle-class here, you either lived in three-floored luxury or in the gutter. Nothing here was fair. And the rich liked it that way. Preferred it that way. They couldn't care less if they so had to walk over corpses, as long as the living kept their stores, brewery, fishings, and whatever running. For as long as they did, the rich need not work. Still, _they_ held _all_ the coin and _all_ power. And one name stood atop all: Black-Briar. A name as old, and corrupt, as the city itself.

It answered the question: If this autumn city is a fair maiden dancing, just who do you think is playing the lute?

Had the city always been this rotten, or had it changed over the years? Or was it me that had changed? No longer blinded by emotional comfort finally seeing the city for what it is: rotten through the woodwork down to its soul.

* * *

Yellow anger gleaming in the stretching dark. White teeth and gnarl. Burning eyes against black, staring me down. Heavily. Glaring. Resentful. Demanding. Tearing at me with bloody pictures. I could feel them. And fear them.

Ever since Krev, my nightmares returned. As horrid as ever: all pain and sorrow. Guilt and hatred and more guilt: shattered memories of a broken past hiding behind tainted glass. Always showing me nothing, but leaving me feeling everything. A cold suffocating fog pressing against me.

Yet it all dispersed and broke away: escaped to that place where all forgotten things go before it woke me. Woke me screaming out of empty lungs, soaked in a cold sweat with wet blurry eyes. And once awake, panting, staring at the beamed ceiling above me, all that remained was the sound of her laughter echoing in my ears. Her laughter and a sharp pain in my hand. Gnawing through the bones. Felt like it had been stabbed all over again.

Nothing but phantom pain.

For when I lifted my hand in front of me, as I did every morning, all I could see was the ring on my finger and that pale white scar in the center of my palm: the only true reminder of that split minded day. Molded memories in forgotten clay: few of them belonged to me, so he kept them in my dreams and took them back came morning.

Still, I had my scar: the reminder of my vengeance. The proof, that in the end, I had succeeded. Avenged them. And paid the price. Yet no matter how long I looked at it, it brought no comfort, only pain.

But when I lowered my hand, as I did every morning, and let it fall on the necklace around my neck? Let it land on the ring resting on my chest? Her ring. The gnawing soothed. Faded away. It felt warm in my hand as it shushed away the pain. Comforting it with memories of a soft, tender kiss.

But none of that was real, was it? The pain in my hand? The warmth of her ring?

All in my head.

Yes… My ¨Scar of Vengenace.¨ Offering only pain…

Pain that I every day pushed away. Hid behind stubborn anger, hard expressions, and a hollow heart.

Hidden behind flesh, rather than steel.

Who's wearing a mask now?

* * *

The Bee and Barb.

Wet stained floor and unlit candles. Cleaned of tables with empty chairs. Shelved wooden plates and hung up mugs.

No one stood behind the bar.

The fireplace was still cold.

Even though the walls, I could hear the morning birds. The early sun creeping in through the cracks of draped, yellow-glassed, windows. But I heard no people, no sounds of the city, and the place was still empty, as it always was when I came down the stairs. Only animals rise as early as I do: yet another touch of irony.

I could wait, but waiting wasn't my strong suit. _Our_ strong suit: even asleep, the thing inside of me grew restless too easy. Besides, it only gave way for thoughts.

I leaned my axe against one of the many tables, placed wolf-head vambraces on it, and moved to wake the fire. First to wake lights the fire: habit of a Companion. The Innkeeper—Keerava—didn't mind: ¨If it means less work for me, do what you want,¨ she had said. And I did. Between contracts, odd jobs and woodchopping paid for my room: throwing out drunkards or beating up troublemakers. This city never ran out of those.

The cold of the Rift never really did creep through the skin of a Nord, especially not one with blood as hot as mine, but I didn't light it for my own sake: the inn held more than one tenant, and as soon as Keerava begins her day she'll need it to serve them breakfast.

Speaking of which, I could already hear her move in the room above: the unmistakable sound of her tail tapping the floor behind her as she walked.

I rose off my knees and left the growing fire to return to my table. Reached for the satchel by my belt and took out the scroll, rolled it out on the table, and sat down.

A different paper each time, still, they all looked the same by now: different words scribbled into the same meaning. Only the signature at the bottom varied. Just one contract before the other. One heavy pouch of cold coin before the next. And the ¨why¨ of it never mattered—Companion neutrality and all that—so they held no reason. No outcome or effect. Just ¨do it¨ and move on. Don't think about it. There's no need to know the bigger picture: eyes on the prey, not the horizon.

Why am I still doing this?

For honor? Because I'm good at it? Because I've done it, lived it, for so long that I no longer know any other life? Because I, sometimes, still enjoy it?

No. I care not for any of those reasons.

How many times has it crossed my mind: to return to Rorikstead, plant seeds in its soil, and watch life grow from the earth until I die an old worn-out farmer, as she had wanted us to? But never found the strength to do so. Because it _is_ what _she_ had wanted.

Why _am_ I still doing this?

Perhaps, because, after everything, I simply do it because I no longer believe these hands to be capable of anything else. Hands so soaked in blood that they no longer possess the right to create life. Nor the ability.

Perhaps I do it because I feel I no longer deserve the life she wanted. And even if I did? How could I possibly have that life without her? Without them?

Again, my hand took to ache. As so many times before, I ignored it as I rubbed the pain away against my thigh, focusing on the paper at hand.

"You're up early," she said with a morning voice as she walked down the stairs and came into the room.

"Funny," I said without taking my eyes of the paper: it was the same dry joke every morning.

"The other's have been complaining," she continued as she made her way to the cooking area by the fire.

I lifted my head as to give her a look, "The _others_ , or you?"

"Oh _I_ don't mind, can't oversleep with you around," she said with her back toward me as she dug through a cabin and placed pots and a wooden ladle on the bench beside her. "I told them that if they think they'll get better sleep at that _whorehouse_ , they're free to go there."

"Hm…" I looked at her over the room: I hadn't expected that, "thanks?… I guess," I said as she turned at me with that Argonian-teeth-showing-grin that in no way looked like a smile.

"So…" she said as she started cleaning her hands on her dirty apron, "...breakfast?"

"Have anything with meat?"

"I have porridge and eggs," she said self-satisfied.

"Porridge and eggs?" Since when did those become remotely close to meat?

"If you wait 'till the market opens I'll have Talen-Jei fetch some fish."

"Then give me eggs," I said, returning my attention to the paper. " _Fried_ , not boiled."

I never ordered anything boiled in this city.

It was easy to forget, with all the close buildings, alleyways, and wooden streets, but half of Riften was built over water, stretching out on Lake Honrich. And because of that, Riften was known for it's many and deep sewers built under the city to keep the place from flooding. And, of course, that's also where the city waste went: morning pots emptied on the streets, spoiled food stomped down drains.

The city-well was built to draw in water from the lake, as well as to collect rainwater, so it'd be clean to drink. But whenever I walked past that thing, my nose strongly told me differently. No wonder mead sold better than water. Besides, if the well drew water from the lake, where do you think the sewers exited? And now that I think of it, from where does the Black-Briar meadery draw their water? Guess it's another of those ¨don't think about it.¨

"You're still looking over that contract?" she asked as she came over with a pitcher and cleaned off my table with a rag before putting it down.

"I'm still waiting for my shield-sibling. We don't work alone."

"Well, when you _do_ decide to get to work, don't forget to pay _me_ when you get paid. You're a week behind on rent."

"I do other works around here," I said, looking up as she turned to walk away.

"That's why you're only _one_ week behind," she sneered over her shoulder as she walked.

Fair enough, I admitted bitterly to myself. I did eat more than most, and no matter how much wood I chopped or how many troublemakers I threw out she could easily charge me way more.

I hated to admit it but I knew she was doing me a favor, she could act as reluctant as she wanted she still did it. I didn't appreciate being pitied, but what other reason was there than pity for the long term Companion waking up from the sound of his own screams every day? At least she didn't make a big deal out of it. I could appreciate that.

A noise drew my attention: footsteps approaching outside the front door. I could hear them before it opened, and sure enough, it opened.

"Welcome to the Bee and Barb, I'll be with you in a minute," Keerava greeted over the room as she worked the stove.

"You?" I said, surprised to see who entered: Njada.

Sword by her hip and a heavy shield on her back she walked over with her usual resting-bitch-face. Her wolf armor followed the same design as Aela's: engraved chest plate, backplate, and rounded plating down the sides of her hips over the double-layered fur-suit. But unlike Aela's, it also had plating on her shoulders and arms. Njada was a shield-maiden, close quarter combat was her thing. And if her shield ever failed her, she needed armor.

But it wasn't the special design, I should know, I helped Eorlund make it.

"Something wrong with that?" she asked sharply with that naturally demeaning attitude of hers as she came up to my table, "You need a shave," she said as a greet and looked at me.

"No," I said, answered her first question as I brushing away my cynicism. "Just surprised to see _you_ as my shield-sibling, I had expected Torvar. You never wanted to work with me before." If she had a reaction, she didn't show it. "Besides, don't you have your own responsibilities as a circle-member? Windhelm?"

"No," she said as she dropped the traveling bag on the floor from over her shoulder and took the seat opposite me, "Their Jarl left for Solitude a while back. So until he returns, I don't have any meetings there."

"Doesn't he have a steward? Another stand-in?"

"Ts. I don't know," she sneered, "That whole city's been feeling off lately. Distracted. All talk behind locked doors. Felt like politics, so I didn't dig into it."

"Hm," I hummed, leaning back in my chair.

"Can I get you anything?" Keerava said as she walked up to the table with two mugs and a plate of fried eggs, placing the plate in front of me.

"I'm fine," Njada answered coldly as she grabbed the pitcher and poured herself a mug of mead, "So…" she said, dismissing Keerava as she turned for me, "what's the contract?"

I slid the paper across the table and watched as she took it. As she read, I poured myself a mug and decided to get to eating.

"Skooma?" she asked while reading, "Investigate… warehouse… arrests?! This isn't Companion work. Isn't this something the city-guards should do? They even know where it is. Why did you take it?"

"I met with the Jarl—Laila Law-Giver—a while back. She told me that whenever they send someone to investigate, the place is empty. But they're sure it's the right place."

"An _insider_ in the court?" she asked, sipping her mead.

"That's politics, not our problem. Anyway, she wanted someone from the outside to check it out. Meaning us."

"Still, ¨investigation,¨ ¨arrests?¨ We're warriors, this isn't for us. Will there even be any fighting?"

"I told her the same…" I said as I cut into my eggs, "…but then she tripled the pay, and all I could think of was Vilkas cursing me for turning her down."

"Tripled? That sounds desperate."

"She's just trying to do good." That's one thing I always felt about the Jarl here: she had a good heart, but whenever she learned of any corruption in the city, it was never anything more than the tip of the iceberg. Almost as if someone intentionally let her on in order to distract her from something else. But again, we don't deal in city-politics— _any_ politics—so: don't think about it.

"Tripled," she repeated quietly to herself, "so what's the pay?"

I answered by throwing a point with my finger at the bottom of the paper.

She whistled as she saw the number, "Okay… Are you coming back to Jorrvaskr after this one?" she suddenly asked, looking up at me as she reached for her mug.

Smalltalk? That's unlike Njada, but I _am_ still eating. "Riften's my responsibility, I don't need to return between contracts," I said as I ate.

She had a reluctant look, yet she continued, "You've been here all winter."

All winter? I looked up, "It's spring already?" Has it really been that long? But then, it's hard to tell the passing of time in a place where the season never changes.

"And the new ones have been asking for you," she continued.

"Why?"

"Because Vilkas's too busy, as always, so Farkas has been trying to train them," she continued with a gesture, "But you know Farkas, a training-dummy would make a better teacher than him."

"So why don't Aela each them? Or you, if your ¨out of work¨ as you say?"

"You think _we_ have the patience for them?" she said annoyed, "no. You're better at that."

I got the point, Aela and Nada alike never had any patience for people with skills they considered ¨beneath¨ theirs. Not like Skjor had.

"That's only because I don't care how bad they are," I said, bringing another piece of egg to my mouth.

"Well, you don't really care about _anything_ anymore, do you?" she finished with a judgemental tone and I looked up at her.

"I'll let that slip," I said coldly, returning to my eggs in silence. Still, I could see her jaw clench in annoyance as she clearly still had something on her mind. Most likely something I didn't want to hear.

"I know why you stay here longer each time," she finally let out after a brief silence, "why you don't want to go back. It's been _years_ , don't you think it's time to—"

"I don't need your sympathies," I interrupted with a glare. I could see where this was going, but still, it felt very unlike Njada, "And since when do _you_ care?"

"Ts," she let out, leaning back with crossed arms, "I _don't_ ," she spat. That's more like her. "Your _father_ sent a letter," she said with a dark tone, looking away from me as she—much appreciated—changed the subject.

"My father?" I said, again lifting my head. Ah… _that's_ why I'm still doing this: for my parents. Every septim I manage to send them is a help. It's the only true usefulness I still had. "Did you bring it?" I asked, looking over at her traveling bag.

"No," she said, still looking away with crossed arms, "Vilkas thought—"

"Of course he did," I interrupted once again. Annoyed. It all made sense now, it was ¨Vilkas¨ I had been talking to. Why else would Njada ask of things she usually would never care for? Because Vilkas had asked her too. "Of course he did…" I repeated to myself. Vilkas always was smarter than credited, and he didn't hesitate to use it. For what choice do I now have? If my father sent a letter, and it was waiting for me in Jorvaskr, I had no choice but to return after this one. Vilkas knew me too well. "How's Athis?" I asked, changing the subject to soothe my annoyance.

"He's better," she said, finally looking at me, "Back in training. But still not back to his old self."

"Still? It must be—what?—over half a year?"

"He… broke almost every rib," she said with a confused but slightly insulted look, "Even through his armor. Punctured a lung. Most people would've died."

"I didn't mean to sound insensitive," I said, realizing how I must have sounded. That contract had been brutal. Funny though, how I sometimes forget people don't heal as quickly as I do. Guess that did make me sound insensitive toward other's injuries. "Well, I'm glad he's doing better," I said, returning to finish the last of my eggs. "Let's go," I said as I finished and reached for my vambraces.

* * *

The docks. Wet slippery planks beneath our feet. At least this part of the city had awakened: fishermen preparing their nets and boats as they made themselves ready for their morning work: seagulls screaming around hammered-shut barrels and tossed away fish remains, circling above the boats as they waited for them to depart. Someone was hammering somewhere: the lower docks always needed repairs as the lake constantly ate away at the woodwork. The air was thick with the many scents of this place: moist wood, mold, mud, moss, fresh water, fish, rats, sewer steam, sea-grass, reed, and more. There were too many scents to count. Still, I could smell them all.

I rarely came out here, but this is where you truly got reminded that half the city stretched out over the lake: water to the left, right, and front alike. Forward, the lake stretched almost as far as one could see: one or two small islands poking up at the center. A building on one of them.

There was an almost still layer of fog creeping over the lake, slowly rising, colored with a golden hue from the morning sun and untouched by the still wind. With the muddy, reed-covered, shoreline, and the autumn-leafed birches surrounding the sides of the lake, people described the morning view as magical, calming: a view colored with fire, brown, green, and gold. But to me, it felt monochrome: nothing but cold shades of gray.

Strange how the world seems to lose its colors when one no longer cares for its beauty.

But no matter how beautiful people described the morning-docks to be, you knew you were in the wrong part of the city when rats were the ones chasing cats. They were everywhere in the lower docks: rubbing their hands as they sat on poles above water, cleaning their whiskers: climbing ropes or scurrying of platforms if you walked too close: razing the seagulls for tossed away fish. And when you couldn't see them, you could always hear them. Squeaking beneath the planks under your feet. Chewing at ropes, gnawing at wood.

"This should be the place," I said as we stopped in front of one of the many small warehouses built atop a wooden platform.

"You sure?" Njada asked as I took out the contract and eyed it over.

"¨Third warehouse on the southern pier,¨" I read off the paper. But I didn't need to read the paper to be certain: I could smell the sweet, sugary almost raisin-like, smell seeping out from the old wooden building. Aromatic. Had to be skooma. The more big-eyed, over-energic, and loud troublemakers this city held usually came with the same scent. The unpredictable ones.

"It looks abandoned," she said doubtfully, peeking between the cracks of the planked over windows.

"Isn't that the way they'd want it to look? If they're hiding a skooma?"

"Hm," she murmured as she tilted her head left and right, "So… should we knock?"

"What do _you_ think," I said sarcastically as I reached for the door handle.

"No need to be snarky," she mumbled with that bitch-tone of hers as she stepped up beside me.

A sudden whiff of something, my hand stopped: there was something new in the air. I threw a glance down the pier to my left as I held the handle. It was empty, but I had a sudden feeling we were being watched. But then, you always felt watched in this city: its atmosphere of paranoia was infective. Still, I discreetly drew a sniff or two of the dock air. Something behind the other smells? A hint of… vomit? Again, not an unusual smell in this city, but—.

"What are you doing? Open the door," Njada suddenly said impatiently.

"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled and mentally brushed away the feeling of suspicion as I returned to face forward. "Remember, we're doing _arrests_. No killing."

"Really?" she snarked out loud, "Thanks for reminding me, I didn't read the contract," she said with sarcastic bite. Internally, I shook my head: this is why I never ask to work with her, she's a bitch. I pulled the handle and the door opened with a creak, I had expected it to be locked.

I had to lean forward as I entered, lest the handle of my axe would hit the lintel. Actually, unlike Njada, I'd have to duck to get in axe or not. Barely had I the time to look around the old warehouse before I heard someone rushing up the set of stairs, shouting:

"We're not open yet!" the voice shouted angrily: a man.

It was a Dunmer, as he came into view: ashen-gray skin and red eyes. He stopped in his steps with a confused look as he obviously didn't recognize us. He quickly eyed us up and down and, judging by his expression, he either recognized Companion armor or decided that two heavily armored visitors were bad news.

"Hello," Njada said in a lighter one than usual as she entered behind me and saw him.

"You're not…" the Dunmer said as he drew a large knife from his belt. He had clearly decided we were trouble. "Sarthis!" he suddenly shouted to, I assume, alarm his college as he came charging for us.

I reached above my shoulder, but Njada briskly stepped in front of me, shield in hand, and watched him approach before she effortlessly blocked his hard swing. She matched the force of his swing and bashed her shield as he struck, forcing his blade to recoil. She quickly drew back her shield and, just as quickly, bashed it forward into his face and he stumbled backward, briefly blinded by the shock of her blow. She wasn't done, she lifted her shield horizontally and punched forward, smashing its edge straight into his face with a loud crack. Like a falling tree, he fell backward and landed hard and unconscious on the floor.

I let go of my axe as it was over. But barely had I the chance to look at him as another Dunmer came running up the stairs in the corner of the room. Sarthis, I assumed.

He stopped and looked in shock at the two of us before he, too, came charging at us with an angry scream and sword held high.

Njada already positioned between us, I watched her walk toward the man as he came charging. As he violently swung down with an enraged scream she skillfully sidestepped him with a pirouette, shield circling around with her motion, and struck him with its edge straight and clean in his neck. Another loud crack and his eyes turned blank as, he too, collapsed unconscious to the floor.

I recognized the move, it was the same one Vilkas had used to knock me out the first time I met him. That was so many years ago.

"Well… that didn't take long," I said, still standing by the door.

"Ts! They were weak," Njada said with a demeaning tone as she looked down at both the men.

"I'll have a look around… you should tie them up," I said and started searching the place.

The upper floor was filled with nothing but dusty boxes, empty barrels, and old fishing nets. Simply put, the things you'd expect to find in a fishing ware-house. Noting of value, definitely no skooma. But I could smell it, it's here somewhere. Most likely where both the men had come from.

The wooden walls were replaced by stone as I walked down the stairs. The stone walls were moist, dripping. But the basement's beneath the water, so it's to be expected. There were three doors, but a sniff of air easily told me which one I was after. Following the scent I entered one of the basement rooms and was met with a stockpile of Skooma and Moon Sugar. Shelves of it. Enough to supply half of Riften. But as I looked around, I saw no alchemy tools. Nothing that said the Skooma wasn't being manufactured here.

The contract was clear: arrest the supplier. But it looks like Sarthis is nothing more than a middle hand: smuggling it into the city and keeping stockpile before it was sold.

I looked through the room, searched the drawers, and found a letter meant for Sarthis.

_Sarthis,  
Just got in a shipment of Moon Sugar  
from Morrowind. We're refining it now,  
and the Skooma should be ready by the  
time you get to Cragslane Cavern.  
Bring the gold or don't show up at all.  
Kilnyr._

Cragslane Cavern? Kilnyr?

"All done," Njada said as she came down the stairs and entered the room. "Wow," she reacted as she saw the shelves loaded with Skooma and Moon Sugar, "Lucky Torvar didn't get to join you on this one, he would be sampling the wares already."

I actually chuckled at her jest as I turned to show her the letter.

"So what now?" she asked as she had finished reading it.

"We're not getting paid until we find the supplier, so I guess we're heading for this _Cragslane Cavern_ ," I said, scratching my stubble.

"You know where it is?"

"Never heard of it."

"Hm… Maybe the Jarl can help?" Njada said as she tossed the letter on the table.

"It's worth a shot." I answered.

"What about the two men?"

"We'll leave them here—they're not going anywhere—and tell the first guard we see to go fetch them, they'll take care of it." I looked over the shelves and scratched my beard again as a thought hit me, "We should confiscate the Skooma and Moon Sugar, I don't think we should leave it here unsupervised." For some reason, I felt it for the best. I did have the feeling earlier that we were being watched, and the Jarl did suspect an inside man. If we leave it here, it might just be ¨cleaned away¨ before any guards get here. But if that was the case, was it safe to leave the two men here?

Meh, ¨inside man?¨ it's politics. We only need the supplier.

"Sure," Njada said and we started packing the Skooma and Moon Sugar into an old sack we found lying on the floor.

* * *

There's that smell again, I thought as we exited the warehouse. Foul. It was stronger this time, closer. Definitely vomit.

"Going to see the Jarl are we?" a raspy voice suddenly said.

Njada hand shot to her sword hilt and she flipped around to see who the voice belonged to. A puke-green Argonian stood leaning against the wall behind the open door, revealing himself as we had closed it.

"Relaax," he said, lifting his hands in front of him, empty palms held toward us. "I mean you no harm." He didn't look hostile but…

I never knew the beauty standards for Argonians, but I had to assume this one was… ugly.

He was wearing old torn and dirty clothes that reeked of vomit, stale mead, and that same sweet scent of skooma. And he had a massive overbite above a weak chin half the size it should be. Big, far apart, eyes with dilated pupils that didn't seem to focus on the same spot, it made eye contact awkward as one of his eyes never met yours. And more disturbingly, they shifted: one second you locked eyes with his left one, only for him to change focus, forcing you to look at his right one, and so on. And he was short for an Argonian, about Njada's length, which wasn't short, but it _was_ short for an Argonian.

"In fact, I think we can help one another," the lizard continued with a wide grin: a row of stinking, sharp, teeth going ear to ear. I could never tell if an Argonian smile was genuine or that of a smirk. But I got a bad feeling as I eyed the lizard up. He didn't seem hostile nor dangerous. But still, he gave off an… disturbing feeling… _too_ much confidence for someone standing before two Companions.

"How so?" I asked suspiciously.

"Well," he started, picking his face of the dried mush in between his scales with thin clawed fingers. "I just happen to believe you need my help to get to _Craigslane Cavern_ …" he said, that overbite smile widening further as he gestured proudly with his hand, "and I just happen to know where it is."

I gave Njada a sideways glance and she slowly took her hand off her sword. "And how do you know that?" I asked.

"Oh, I make it my business to know things, plenty of things…" he said, his tongue slithering in his mouth as he spoke, "It's _all_ useful. I also know the Jarl can't help you." He teased.

"How so?" Njada pitted in.

"Oh," he let out confidently, turning his head to look at Njada, or ¨past¨ Njada, "Believe mee, if the Jarl knew of Craiglane Cavern… she wouldn't have had to hire you guys," he answered with a self-satisfied look.

"And _you_ know where it is?" I asked, discreetly looking around the pier. I saw no one else, nor did I smell anyone, but the whole thing reeked with suspicion: to be approached like this in Riften? It never meant anything good.

"Oooh-yesss," He answered, slithering his tongue between his front teeth as he turned his head at me.

"And I suppose you want payment for telling us?" I saw where this was going, smelled it, nothing came free in this city. If he _willingly_ admitted having something we wanted, _we_ most certainly had something _he_ wanted.

"Oh-yeEes," he, again, hissed satisfied, rubbed his pale hands as he eyed our bag of Skooma and Moon Sugar.

"Of course," I said and gave Njada a look. I held out my hand toward her, ignoring the bitter, reluctant, look she gave. But she folded with a sigh and reached down the bag to pull out two bottles of Skooma and handing them to me.

"Don't play with me!" He suddenly hissed angrily before I had the time to even offer them to him.

It put me on guard as I withdrew my hand: Skooma addicts are unreliable, irrational, unpredictable, and dangerous. The drug makes them quicker than one would believe, like a frantic cat slicing air—a hissing and spitting whirlwind with claws—and they never run out of energy. Not that I'd fear for my life, far from it, but even with my reflexes, the possibility of him clawing out an eye or two before we'd draw weapons wasn't unlikely.

"I want ALL of it!" he hissed again with a crazed look: bulging eyes, hostile teeth showing.

"Are you mad?!" Njada snaped at the lizard.

"Sure, all of it," I said, gesturing for Njada to be quiet. But she wouldn't have it.

"This bag is easily worth at least four times our pay!" she continued.

"Ooh, my apologies," he said with that self-satisfying smile growing back on his face as he looked intensely at me before relaxing and turning his head at Njada, "I didn't know the _Companions_ doubled as _skooma-dealers_?"

Seems at least _he_ had heard me as he clearly calmed. And I figured out the difference now, it was definitely a grin.

"Ts!" she let out through clenched teeth as she slightly recoiled, "Well, how convenient for you," she said with bile sour bite, clearly beyond pissed.

"Isn't iit?" he said, gesturing, as an even larger grin almost splitting his head in half.

"Welcome to Riften," I said, giving Njada a push on her shoulder. No one willingly approached anyone to make a deal here, unless they already knew they had the upper hand. You simply _can't_ win in bartering against the locals.

But the Argonian was right. Even if we did have a way to sell illegal drugs, it isn't a rumor we'd want staining our reputation. And I doubted the Jarl would pay us for the skooma and moon sugar, after all, "it's not part of our contract," I said, reaching for the bag in Njada's clenched hand. "It's for the better," I said as she let go of the bag and I tossed it in front of the Argonian's feet. His eyes shone up in excitement, diluting even further as he enthusiastically lashed out and picked up the bag, clenching it to his chest.

"Well, well, well," he said with shining large eyes that, still seemed to look past us, "I suppose we've made a deal then?"

"Yes," I said as I reached for the leftmost satchel on my belt and took out my map to hold it in front of him, "Now show us,

* * *

It was quite the walk, took us hours. The sun was already high in the sky, well past noon.

Cragslane Cavern was deep in the birch forest north of Riften. I wasn't surprised the guards didn't know of the place or had accidentally stumbled upon it. It was so far into nowhere that there was no way even _we_ would have found it without the ¨help¨ of that Argonian. But we were on the right track.

I smelled the smoke before we saw it, heard the camp before we saw it: a couple of tents raised around a fire, next to a cave. There were cages all around with large wolf-like dogs in them. Two men rose from the campfire and started walking towards us as we approached, their hands on the sword by their hips and suspicion in their eyes.

Njada moved her hand for her sword, but I quickly gestured to draw her attention and gave her a look not to.

"Who are you?" the closer man said as they came within talking range.

"Just here to earn some coin," I said. It wasn't a lie.

The Argonian had told us Cragslane Cavern doubled as a skooma manufacturing cave as well as a dog-pit fighting arena. And the caged dogs outside confirmed this was the right place. Disturbing, the things people with too much coin and time will gamble on for entertainment.

"You don't look like the regular gamblers we get," he said with suspicion in his voice, "Who told you of this place?" he asked, still with his hand on his blade.

"Some dirty lizard in Riften," Njada answered with her bitchy bite. She had been sour the whole walk. I had shrugged it off as her being her usual self, but it was clear by her tone that the Argonian had fouled her mood, she never did like being used.

"Let me guess…" he said with squinting eyes, "Puke-green? Overbite?"

"That's the one," Njada answered coldly.

"Hm," he let out with an annoyed look before mumbling to himself, "That damn Sleek better learn to keep his mouth shut…" he gave his friend a look before they both let go of their swords. "Well, I suppose you're here to gamble then? Entry is three Septims, just pay the guard on your way in," he said as he gestured toward the cave entrance and they both turned to head back to the campfire.

"Let's go," I said, walking past Njada.

The entry guard eyed us up and down as we entered the torch-lit cave. There were wooden beams along the walls and ceiling, holding the place up, and the deeper end of the cave looked man-made. Like everywhere, there were scents in the air: sweat, mead, animals, and, behind those, a discreet hint of _that_ sweet smell. And distant echoes of cheering and growling could be heard.

"Twenty septims… each." he said with hard eyes.

"Twenty sep!— The man outside said three septims," Njada said, flaring up.

"Welcome to Riften," I repeated and she instantly gave me a sharp look. I actually found a bit of humor in her anger, she clearly hated the people here. I didn't blame her, it took me a while to learn ¨the dance of the Rift¨ as well: everyone sought to use you one way or another. And whenever they saw the chance, they took it.

"Sure…" he continued, "Leave your weapons and armor here and it's three," he said stubbornly, large arms crossed over his chest.

To me, he didn't look like much. But we better not start any trouble, we're only here for one man.

I placed my hand on Njada's shoulder and stepped forward to pay the man. "Pay your own share," I said as I dug through what little coin I had left, "Our pay will make up for it."

He gruffed satisfied and stepped aside as he was done counting the coin, opening the way for us.

I could hear the increasing sound of people cheering as we went deeper, and dogs barking and growling. The short tunnel opened up to a larger round cave room, a cavern. High ceiling and bedrock walls. It must have taken quite the amount of time and work to carve out this place.

There was a fenced-off area in the center of the room and a crowd of people around it, cheering and screaming curses at the two beasts fighting: a large black dog pitted against a gray wolf.

Njada looked at the gamblers with disgust as we made our way through the crowd: all of them too distracted to even notice us.

I had seen a makeshift bar built on a platform, past the crowd overlooking the arena, in the opposite corner of the cave when we had entered. And if one needed information, the bartender's usually the guy to speak to. For who else spoke to as many as he?

"What will it be?" the bartender asked, while he cleaned the bar counter of spilled mead, as I came up to lean one elbow on the bar counter. I threw a look over my shoulder: Njada remained behind me with her back against me as she watched over the crowd, "I have everything you can drink, sniff, smoke, or stuff up places I don't care to know about," he continued as I looked back at him.

He didn't look that old, yet the hair by his temples had turned gray.

I reached for one of the satchels on my belt and took out the note I found earlier. "I'm looking for _Kilnyr_?" I said looking up from my paper for his reaction.

"He's busy," the barkeeper said, turning around not to look at me as he grabbed a small glass and a bottle off the shelf.

"So he's here?"

He turned back and stopped as he looked at me with suspicion, eyeing me up and down.

"What's it to you?" He asked suspiciously as he placed the glass on the counter and poured up a strong-smelling drink. Hard liquor.

So he _is_ here, I thought and turned my head to Njada. I gave her a confirming nod as she locked eye contact and a slight smile formed on her face as she took the hint, taking the shield off her back.

Discretion isn't a word in the vocabulary of a Companion. Besides, this is the Rift, where threats and barter are the same. And… sometimes you just feel like breaking stuff.

I turned back to the barkeeper, and as he lifted his glass and bent his head back to empty it down his throat, I reached over the counter and grabbing him by his neck, and violently bashed his head down onto the bar counter. A loud pained blare and the sound of glass shattering in his mouth as his face hit the counter.

"Where is he?" I asked calmly as I lifted his face off the counter, but all he let out was a wail and gargle as he spat bloodied glass shards and broken teeth. "No answer?" I steadied my grip and forcefully pulled him over the counter, throwing him onto the muddy floorboards behind me: better to face the crowd.

"Again, where is he?" I, again, asked calmly, standing over the barkeeper as he crawled up, turning on the ground to a sit while holding his bleeding face. He didn't answer, he only gave me a shocked expression and mumbled loudly, yet incoherently, into his blood dripping hand. I reached down and grabbed him by his collar and lifted him up, and threw him back first against the counter.

People had started shouting behind me, noticing ruckus. Some even straight out screamed and ran for the exit as I looked back. The pit-guards will be here soon: leave it to Njada.

I turned back for the barkeeper who struggled to stand, reaching for the counter for grip as he rose. I grabbed his wrist and bent it in a painful position, again he yelled in pain and turned to kneel back down for the pain.

"Again… where is he?" I asked, still with a calm voice, twisting his wrist further.

"H-he bagloom!" he squealed through his bloodied mouth, pointing frantically across the room with his other hand before begging me to release him. I could hear fighting behind me but ignored it.

The backroom, eh?

A hard twist and he screamed as I heard his wrist break and I let go. He clenched his wrist as he kneeled in front of me, and I grabbed the counter—sometimes you just feel like breaking stuff—and pulled as I slammed my knee hard into his face. His head shot back and banged loudly with a crack against the counter, like a ragdoll he fell to his side and remained there. No more groaning.

I had no more use of the man so I turned around toward Njada.

The guards were already here, shouting and screaming, and Njada was fending off three men at once, holding her shields with both hands as her feet were planted firmly in the ground and her torso and shoulders did more work in moving her shield than her arms did.

I knew she was a skilled shieldmaiden, but this was the first time I ever saw her in action outside of training. I'm impressed: the three guards might as well be dulling their sword against a rock.

I reached over my shoulder as I walked down the steps behind her, and drew my axe. One leg firmly in front of the other, axe to the side, arms and torso tightening in preparation for the swing. ¨Duck,¨ I said and swung my axe horizontally as she ducked, dangerously close above her head.

Skyforge steel swung hard, cut through the first man's arm, severing it, before it sliced halfway through the side of his torse, his body flew with the swing, stuck in my axe, and shot aside for the force as he slammed into the next man, and the third, and they all fell to the floor.

Njada quickly rose and moved forward, going for the closest man, and bashed him over the head with her shield before she turned for the third, punching the shield forward and knocking him to the ground before he had fully risen.

I stepped forward and tore my axe out of the corpse, sheeted it on my back, and moved to pass her for the backroom.

"What was that?!" she said out loud, giving me a big-eyed look as I walked past her, "I thought you said no killing?"

"Well," I said, making my way across the now empty cavern, "We're only here for one man."

A small, short tunnel led to the backroom. As I approached, I saw alchemy shelves, ingredients, and other tools I assumed were used to refine moon sugar into skooma. Vases and glasses and other things. That sweet smell was heavy in the air, a clear pink foglike mist pressing against the ceiling. More shelves, full with tiny skooma bottles, many times more than we found in the warehouse.

"You're never gonna take me alive!" a scared voice shouted as I had entered.

"You must be Kilnyr," I said as I spotted a small framed Dunmer across the room by some caged wolves. He looked frightened, clearly not a fighter. Purely an alchemist then?

The instant I took a step toward him he pulled a lever and the cages opened with a metallic clank, releasing two large wolves. Instantly they both charged at me, barking fiercely and showing teeth.

But wolves are all about alphas… and few wolves are more alpha than mine.

 _Wake up_ , more a feeling than an actual thought: the touch of a dark memory, _Hear her laughter, and wake up._

The wolves suddenly stopped in their tracks as they met my eyes: that familiar feeling of adrenaline, muscles tightening, anger, further enhanced senses. Tense. It wasn't my eyes they met, but _his_ yellow-glowing glare, threatening them from out of mine.

They shivered, whimpered, and turned, tails between their legs as they razed, no, fled in panic from true supremacy: recognizing the eyes of a wolf amongst wolves. Fleeing back into their cages to lay down in the hay, shaking fear, not even looking at us.

¨ _Every time you call for him, you'll think of me!_ ¨ Even now, I hated how she had been right.

Kilnyr had the same look in his eyes as we turned our eyes on him, falling back and crawled away in fear until his back hit the wall. We walked toward him as he covered against the wall, shaking yet stiff, stunned by shock and muted by despair. There must be something truly primal in what he feels: pure dread for death.

He shakingly drew for air as we walked, "By… by Oblivion?!" His panic only grew as we came closer, "M-m-monster! " he let out in panic as we came to a stop in front of him. "No!" he screamed out again, covering, protecting himself with his arms as we moved our hand.

_Why is it they always scream for their mothers when we reach for them?_

* * *

_Back to sleep, wolf,_ I forced as I dragged the whimpering Kilnyr along the floor by the back of his collar: feeling the anger soothe, fade, recede and dissipate.

Njada stood waiting by the two tied-up guards as I dragged Kilnyr across the room.

"That him?" she asked, looking at him as we came close.

"Sure is," I said. He let out a frightened whimper as I heaved and tossed him next to the other two. Believe it or not, he was crying.

"What did you do to him?" Njada asked as I kneeled down for some rope by the nearby barrels.

"Just gave him a scare," I said as I walked back and kneeled down beside him to tie his hands behind his back.

"No!" he screamed and his hands twitched out of my reach.

"Be quiet," I told and grabbed his wrists none the less. Tying them against his struggles and frightened complaints.

I could feel Njada's eyes burning into my neck as I tied him. It felt annoying. "What?" I said, turning my head at her.

Cross-armed, she stood with a stern look on her face, "The bartender's dead," she stated.

"Shame," I said sharply—low-life criminal won't be missed, is what I thought—and turned back to finish tying the man.

"What about these two?" she continued.

"Wake them up, we'll have them walk with us," I said as I moved to tie his feet with some length in the rope: enough for him to walk but not run.

"By Ysgramor," Njada sneered under her breath as I heard her walk away. As soon as I was finished with the ropes, I rose and watched as she headed toward us with a bucket.

"Get up!" she shouted as she poured the water over the two men. All curses, spit, and swears as they came to and realizing they were tied.

"Yeah, yeah. Get up!" she said over their curses and pulled one of the men up by his armpit, "You too!" she shouted for the other.

"I'll take this one," I said and nodded toward Kilnyr.

"So…" she started, ignoring the insults her captives sang as she turned her head toward me once they all were standing, "You coming back after this one?"

"Don't see much of a choice," I said as I stopped in front of Kilnyr, returning her look, "as you said: my father sent a letter."

"Then let's go collect our payment," she said and pushed one of the men to walk, holding the knot hard behind the other one's back.

"I'll be with you in a minute," I said and turned for Kilnyr: his frightened eyes quickly turned away as they met mine.

"Okay?" Njada said as they headed off.

For a moment, I simply stood over him. Menacingly. Watched him squirm nervously on his ass with his hands tied behind his back as I waited until the others had disappeared down the tunnel.

He looked up at me, biting through his fear as he forced out a slimmer of courage. Steadier eyes.

"I'll-I-I-I'll," he stammered out. So much for courage.

"You'll-you'll-you'll, you'll do what?" I mimicked to silence him, staring him down.

I reached over my shoulder and the fear returned to his eyes as I grabbed the handle. "No!" she whimpered, feet scratching the ground in an attempt to flee, as I drew my axe and turned it head-down in front of me. "No!" he repeated sharply in fright, looking away as I let the axe-head drop heavily to the ground in front of me. Holding the handle, I slowly went down to a squat: elbows on my knees as I let the handle lean on my right shoulder with my fingers resting on its bar.

I looked at him. Took my time. Watched him struggle to breathe. I watched him until wet eyes dared look back.

"Tell anyone what you saw earlier, and, by Ysmir, I'll come back to _skin you alive._ "


	2. Death of a High King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got it done.
> 
> I hope you like it, Enjoy.  
> And merry x-mass to you all.

The rumors hadn't reached Riften yet, not surprising. Riften was on the far opposite side of Skyrim from Solitude and it'd take more than weeks for the rumors to reach there. But here? In Whiterun? The rumors were all over. Crowds either whispered their thoughts discreetly between one another or shouted them out loud for all to hear. And the few who remained silent eagerly eavesdropped from their windows or kept close enough to hear yet not so close as to get drawn in. Everyone craved, or shared, details for the rumor, neither knowing nor caring how much truth they held. But craving speculations or not, everyone already knew the only part of the rumor that held true. The only part that mattered:

High King Torygg is dead.

Impossible to tell when—the crowds didn't speak of dates. It could've happened a week ago, or a month ago. But it was on every set of lips we passed, impossible to ignore, as we walked the cobblestoned main street. This usually united city suddenly seemed split in thought and belief, bickering like children; arguing in the fashion of I'm right _you're_ wrong no _I'm_ right, you're wrong. It felt… _very_ out of character.

If this had been Riften the guards would already be beating people into silence before throwing them behind rust-covered bars into a moldy cell of stone. But, thankfully, this isn't Riften; the people speaking their minds was something Jarl Balgruuf not only tolerated but appreciated, even. He expected the same of his guards. Here, the guards didn't need to intervene, they warded of violence with their presence alone. As loud and bickering as they were, they still remained civil.

But the further we walked the clearer it became and as we met and passed Idolaf Battle-Born, proudly donning his Imperial armor out in the open as he gave dirty looks to anyone mentioning Ulfric or the Stormclaks, I realized: the city didn't _seem_ split… it _was_ split. And the Battle-Borns had clearly already picked their side.

I wonder what Vignar would have to say about that. He never hesitated to speak ill of the Battle-Borns whenever he saw a chance for it, some feud between them—the Battle-Borns and the Gray-Manes—that I never cared to dig into. Eorlund sure never spoke of it—one of the few in that family who didn't seem to care enough about it—but Vignar's stubborn enough that he might just side with the Stormcloaks simply to oppose the Battle-Borns.

The city was split. Half the crowds shouted: the Empire is weak, Ulfric Stormcloak proved it! He challenged the High King in a fair fight! We don't need them anymore! A free Skyrim! Screw the White-Gold Concordat! For Talos!

While the other half shouted: Ulfric Stormcloak is a traitor! He murdered the High King! Skyrim isn't part of the Empire, Skyrim _**is**_ the Empire! Ulfric betrayed us! We need the Empire more than ever, and they need us!

"How long ago did you say the Jarl of Windhelm left for Solitude?" I asked Njada as we made our way through the loud marketplace.

"Not sure," she said, studying her surroundings as we walked, "A month ago? Two?"

"Hm," I let out, too, studying my surroundings as I pondered the question: How long does it take to travel from Windhelm to Solitude? I didn't know, and I didn't ponder on it too long as my thoughts independently went elsewhere:

The marketplace… this is where I first saw her—a redhead in the crowd. Hair like autumn fire, frost-edged leaves. The first time she had noticed me and our eyes had locked she had smiled. I could still see her; bright amber eyes smiling softly with clear interest through the crowd. A memory, once again, brought into reality. _Forced_ into reality. It reminded me of yet another thing:

I hated being in this city. It always made my hand hurt.

"You really think he did it? Killed the High King?" I asked to take my mind off my hand as I repeatedly made a soft fist to dull the pain.

"Does it matter?" she said, "Everyone else seems to think so. Either way, it doesn't affect us."

"Not yet," I said as the gnawing pain slowly faded into a pulsating pressure, and like that it remained. "As much as we stay out of politics it may be impossible to stay out of something like this for long. It's too big."

"You know how rumors are, they're probably over-exaggerated," she said.

"Over exaggerated?" I repeated sarcastically and gave her a sideways look, "How does one over exaggerate the death of a king?"

"I meant Ulfric," she continued, "I've met him enough times to know he's no murderer. He values honor, and the old ways, traditions, and respect. He'd never resort to straight-up murder—especially not the High King."

"Taking sides?" I asked.

"No," she said sharply, but giving me an indifferent look, "I'm simply saying _if_ Ulfric killed the High King, he did so for a good reason…" she looked back forward as we walked before finishing her sentence, "At least according to his own mind."

"Let's just get to Jorrvaskr," I said, "the less we get involved the better."

* * *

"You're back sooner than we expected, dear," Tilma greeted Njada as she went through the door before me, but as I entered her expression changed to that of surprise, "Oh dear," she let out, "You on the other hand…" she said as her expression settled into something softer, "Welcome back. It's been a while."

Looking around I couldn't tell. Everything looked the same as last time I was here. The same as ever; same old oak chairs around the same set of heavy long tables with red table cloth around that same long slow-burning coal-fire burrowed into the deep length in the stone floor. That hefty layer of white smoke up by the high ceiling pushing to seep through the small cracked open windows. The same worn down red carpets and Wuuthrad embroidered golden-stitched red banners lay and hung in their usual places. Side tables sitting in their usual spots with the same set of candlestands on them. That book-filled bookcase by Vignars' personal corner. Same old weapon stands and wall-mounted shields. Nothing that told, or even hinted at, the passage of time showed. Everything looked the same as always.

Again the thought hit me, as it had done in Riften when Njada first mentioned, had it really been half a year?

"Any food left?" Njada asked as she made her way into the center of the mead hall, tossing her traveling bag on the floor by her chair as she approached the tables.

"You're a bit late for breakfast, don't you think?" she answered. "You'll have to wait 'til noon. Like everybody else."

Njada didn't hesitate to complain loudly with one of those sharp tss-sounds of hers—they came by habit to her—as I approached, wrinkling her nose and giving Tilma a lame look before she snapped her head to face away.

"Yes," I said as I came to a stop, addressing Tilma, "I guess it's been a while."

"Hm," she let out in a glad sound as she looked up at me with a soft smile, that proud-looking face she gave rarely enough that one forgot she had them. Made me wonder why? "Should I get the others?" she asked.

"No need to interrupt their training," I said, it was around that time, and even before we entered Jorrvaskr I had heard them all training in the backyard behind the building. "Besides, I'd like to get settled while I have the time," I finished, nodding my head toward my own bag hanging over my shoulder.

"You do that," she said. "I've kept your room clean, not that there's been much to clean with no one using it. Spiderwebs… mostly."

"Thank you," I said, ignoring the obvious you've-been-away-a-long-time tease she hinted as I turned for Njada, "My letter?"

With her side against me, she crossed her arms and looked at me with cold condescending eyes. I waited as she looked me up and down, feeling my patience sap away. She had always been like this, arrogant to say the least, but that part of her only seemed to have grown since I saw her last. Made me wonder if the title of ¨Circle-member¨ had gotten to her head? There are, after all, no ranks in the Companions. But then again, even before he died Njada had been the only one who openly, without hesitation, gave lip to Skjor.

So maybe the title hadn't gotten to her head, but rather opened the door to simply reveal more of who she truly was; a professional bitch—not a trait uncommon nor uncalled for in a female Companion, perhaps even needed. Aela showed much of the same, although in a more mature way if one can call it that.

"My letter?" I repeated sharply and straightening my back and neck as my patience finally outgrew her cold silent attitude. That letter is the only reason I returned, I wouldn't have minded staying in the morose company of the Rift for yet six more months. Especially if _this_ is what I had to return to. Curse you Vilkas, you sly, clever, and brilliant old-souled wolf for forcing my return.

"Should be on your desk," she said, stated, without moving a muscle in neither face nor posture.

Without moving a muscle. There are two ways to interpret that; glaring indifference, or withheld fear—the kind of fear that creeps coldly beneath one's skin without you realizing it before it shows up as goosebumps and cold sweat.

"No need to tell the others yet," I said, turning back to Tilma, "I'll make myself known when I've had my time."

"No need?" Tilma asked, seemingly taken back, "They'd all be glad to see you're back."

"We've traveled for days, and I've been away longer. I'd like an hour or two to get settled."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," I said, tightening the grip on my bag as I turned to head for the basement stairs. "I'll come to meet the others when I feel for it. You too, Njada, no need to tell."

"Tss."

"You young ones," I heard Tilma mumble behind my back as I walked, "Be like that then. But you can't stop me from making something special for dinner. I'm sure Kodlak would want a feast for your return."

"Tomorrow," I spoke out loud as I walked, "I'm sure that'll give you time to make a grander feast." Though, to tell the truth, I could do without the attention. But that half-assed promise would keep her occupied, perhaps even distracted, at least for today.

* * *

"I need to leave," I said as I tossed my father's letter on Kodlak's desk table.

"Is that so?" he mumbles through his hand as he stroked his beard and gave me a look over his shoulder before he looked back forward to read the letter. "Is that why you called everyone to my chambers?" he asked as he read.

"I suppose," I said and looked over the room.

Farkas stood brooding by the doorway as he leaned, arms crossed, against the wall. Aela and Vilkas sat looking at us from Kodlak's corner table with skepticism on their faces, Vilkas discreetly, or to me not so discreetly, ruminating as he awaited Kodlak's reaction, though, as always, he hid it well.

"Why?" Aela asked inconspicuously.

"Because—"

"It seems the Empire has been quick in taking actions—a consequence of the High King's death I am sure," Kodlak interrupted me as he turned the chair to face the rest of us as he had finished reading my letter. "They're recruiting. And as logic tells, the first ones to be called are those who are _already_ enlisted."

"Enlisted?" Aela repeated with a confused look, turning her head for me, "But you're not enlisted."

"No," I said as I looked back at Aela, "But my father is. He served in The Great War and is still an Imperial soldier, so now he's been called. Or… _summoned_ as the letter says."

"Summoned indeed," Kodlak continued. "As in all Eras before, once signed up as one of the Empire you are in it for life. A simple way to take advantage, and to reuse, those who have served before… and survived. And as all well-thought-out strategies, they have even given tough into how to best… _reuse_ even those no longer fit for battle, by making it a matter of _family_." He gave me a glance as he finished.

Vilkas, too, gave me a sudden hard look as Kodlak had finished his statement; clearly understanding the depth of his words. Aela, however, did not, "What?" she asked. More annoyed than confused.

"Every soldier of the Empire is free to forego their obligation to serve by surrogating their place of duty to an offspring within their family—within blood. To send a son or a daughter in their stead," Kodlak explained.

"Right," I said. Feeling strangely alone in the middle of Kodlak's room.

"And you're their only son," Vilkas said in a low voice, giving me a serious look as he fully understood.

"Right," I repeated in a suddenly sullen mood: been a long time since I thought of my brother, "The only one left… so I have to go."

"I hate to speak the obvious," Kodlak said, again drawing our attention, "And more so, I hate how the obvious won't affect your decision, for I see it has already been set in your mind. But you're a Companion. And by our honor—constituted by Mryfwill, Harbinger of old—Companion neutrality deems you have the right of refusal."

"And send my father to die?" I said.

"As I said I am simply stating the obvious. Even if a decision has been made it is important to be aware of one's options, and perhaps, reconsider," he stated. So very much like him. For an old man, his eyes always held a youthful sharpness. Deep clarity. Every time we ever talked, they always looked like that. studying and wise. As if he saw, not through you, but rather, _into_ you. Knowing my answers before I knew them myself. Made all our conversations feel one-sided.

"To me, Kodlak, it's not an option. My father's over fifty winters, he's not fit for war. He'd die. And my mother can't care for the farm by herself while he'd be gone, and his death would ruin her. It's… it's not a matter of choice."

"That, I know," he continued deeply with a brief pause, "I only seek to wish that you don't act rashly. That you consider your options—for even when it seems not, there are always options."

As aggravating as ever. Claiming to know my answer yet actively attempting to guide me away from it. Why? This is why I rarely sought answers from Kodlak, for he never offered any. Only more questions. Whatever he dug for me to think, the options were already clear to me: _Yes_ or _no_.

If I stay, my father will most likely die in battle. If I leave, I, a moon born Circle member Companion, _might_ die. I, at least, stand an infinite grander chance than my aged father. No, the choice wasn't in question at all: it was common sense.

With a sigh for Kodlak, I turned to Vilkas, giving him that look I always give when I feel annoyed by the old man. Didn't take him long to get the hint.

"So," he started with that serious look of his as he leaned forward, elbows heavy on his knees, "Did you call us here to _tell_ us you're leaving _,_ or were you hoping for us to _stop_ you from leaving?"

Not… the words I had expected. It took me aback. But then I didn't know what I had expected, other than perhaps understanding.

"I…" I started searching for an answer, coming up with none. "I don't know."

"Yet your mind is set?" Kodlak said less than asked behind me.

"It is," I said. Vilkas and Aela both gave me a patient look with just a hint of confusion: I didn't really answer his question did I? I should: "My mind is set, Vilkas. I simply don't know why I called you all here. Kodlak alone would've done."

"So there's no convincing you out of it?" Vilkas asked leaning back in his chair, hands brushing along his knees to end, resting, on his tighs.

"No," I said. "I guess I'm going to war."

War… A moment of silence passed as I sighed once again. Everyone, more or less, sighed and seemed to go dark for a moment as they took in the word. One of those moments when everyone has something on their mind yet no one knows how to speak it.

"Not war," Kodlak—the only one knowing how to speak it— said reassuringly behind me, making me turn to look over my shoulder. "A rebellion, to be sure, but not yet a war. An unlit bonfire given embers not yet knowing if it will take aflame."

He fell quiet for a moment, making sure he had all of our attention. Needless to say, he did. Everyone had their eyes set on him.

"As you all know, we steep away from all forms of politics. Yet the rift between politics and non-politics remains vague, and thus Companion neutrality, our honor, remains hard to define. As Harbinger, it is one of my duties to separate the two. But the ignorant can not separate. Thus I can not be ignorant… the true role of the Harbinger is understanding, and through understanding, guidance."

"Just out with it, old man," Aela said.

"Patience, young one," he said calmly as he gave Aela a soft look, "knowing the answer is rarely as important as in knowing _how_ to know the answer."

Again I gave Vilkas that look; that's Kodlak for you, never giving you a straight out answer but stubbornly forcing you to figure it out by yourself. Perhaps he faked it. Perhaps he didn't know. Perhaps he masqueraded his _wisdom_ behind well-spoken words and false insight. Isn't that how old people survive? Feigning importance?

Yet Vilkas didn't answer my look, he dismissed it and looked past me. At Kodlak. "Then share what you know," he said.

"Aye," Kodlak said to answer Vilkas. "Politics and non-politics can-not be separated by one not well versed within the two, and thus, the role of Harbinger demands it. It falls upon me. This is why—as some of you know, and others don't—all of our contracts go through me before they reach you; the members of the Circle. It is my role and duty, one of many, to separate the two. Because of that, knowledge within all the ongoings of importance is essential to me. As well as the people involved. Politics can not slip me by, as I can not ignore what I do not know."

"I'm with Aela on this one," I said, "You clearly know more than us, out with it."

"Aye," he said as he looked up at me, leaning back in his chair as he stroked his thick white beard with one hand before lifting both of them to draw them over his head and correct that thick braid of white hair. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he said as he seemed satisfied with how the braid ran down his neck, over the backrest of his chair, and parallel with his spine. "There are plenty of reasons I've long ignored… _most_ of his contracts—the Windhelm contracts. Not out of petty, stubbornness, nor obvious reasons of politics. But rather, honorable as he may be, he is no coward.

"Most 'honorable' men of our times respond to insult with silence, turning a cold shoulder as punishment. They believe severing their contact is enough punishment to teach you a lesson, that their lack and loss of presence is enough to make you realize your mistake—an ill-fit parent's harsh punishment toward an unknowing child. But Ulfric is not a man of our times. He was raised by the traditions of old. Ancient, tradition reaching toward the Atmorans of old. Yes Vilkas, I see you ponder. Tradition older than me.

"Unlike Skjor, now feasting in Shor's hall I am sure, I unwillingly, and unintentionally, avoided the Great War, for by then I had recently been made a Companion, and many years after that, Harbinger. And as such, I knew little in the ways of full out war, the politicall nature behind it, and my first responsibility as Harbinger was seeking the knowledge and awareness of all of our employers: The Jarls. I needed education in the matter. A tedious task, at first, but soon that task's importance became apparent to me; all Jarls deal in politics. And in hiring our services, all Jarls seek to exploit us. To misuse our existence for their own personal gain. To use us Companions—The Strongest of Skyrim—like pieces on their own personal boards where they all play the King.

"But unlike most, if not all, Ulfric was different. Unlike the contracts of others, he never hid his true intent. His contracts were honest, honorable, and pure. It made me wary. Distrustful. Only the innocent work in such ways, and the truly honorable, not a man who's earned fame in war, a man who, at the times, had recently taken his father's place as Jarl of Windhelm. I couldn't help but believe his contracts were more than well-crafted lies, capable of deceiving even me, and that he too sought to exploit us.

"But I did not know the man back then. I only had my suspicion. And he stood out. And so I, again, took on the tedious task of study. But this time, instead of the nature behind politics and the important names in Skyrim, my studies fell on Ulfric himself; his present history as well as his recent past.

"And once again I came to realize; Ulfric stood out amongst the crowd of Skyrim's nobility. He was never destined to take on the role of Jarl. His father—Hoag Stomrckloak, The Bear of Eastmarch—had different plans in mind for his son, and he was offered to, and accepted by Graybeards at a young age and studied their ways to one day become one amongst them: A Graybeard himself.

"He spent most of his early younghood amongst them. For many a year, he studied in their ways before, once again, the pull of faith intervened: The Great War."

"The Graybeards?" I asked.

"You don't know the Graybeards?" Aela said condescendingly, "And you call yourself a Nord?"

"Of course I know of the Graybeards," I said, giving her the same condescending look she gave me. Though I admitted, in my mind, that I knew them as little more than old men singing to the Gods atop High Hrothgar—the stories my mother had told me as a child. "But what part are they in politics?"

"Politics?" Vilkas began, not so condescending but rather surprised. "That's not… _politics_. That's our history."

"As if I ever cared for history," I responded, suddenly feeling assaulted by them both. I grew up on a farm not in a mead hall founded by history—surrounded and defined by history—what should I know?

"Aye, the Graybeards," Kodlak continued, calmly lifting his hand to pacify the others with a soft wave, as well as to redraw our attention. "Old hermits, living atop High Hrothgar—ever watching from atop of the throat of the world. Solemnly. Rumored to prolong their lifespans by the songs of old—or, perhaps, by other means. Who is to say.

"Truly pacifists, scholars of time they are, watching the flow of the world go by. Uncaring. Rarely do they intervene—if ever. The one thing we know for certain is that once the Graybeards call your name, it will be heard across all of Nirn—as it was by the time of Tiber Septim. And so you are bound to hear and follow. Their summoning is not to be ignored, some say, believe even, that it can not be. To be accepted to study amongst them is beyond a great honor. But I sway, back to Ulfric for I see you're once again losing both patience and attention, Aela."

She gave him an annoyed sigh but slowly resettled in her chair, he watched patiently until she crossed her arms over her chest and returned her focus on him. "Many have been offered to the Graybeards in hopes of tutorage, less than a few have been accepted over the last centuries, none summoned. Ulfric Stormclaok, offered by his own father, is one of those few and the most recent one.

"As I said, at an early age Ulfric was accepted to live amongst the Graybeards. To learn the Voice of old—the language of Gods. Why? I do not know. But he was never intended to return to ordinary life after that, even less so to take his father's place as Jarl of Windhelm. For once accepted to become a Graybeard one can never leave High Hrothgar for any reason, one leaves all matters of the world behind.

"Yet return Ulfric did—undoubtfully against the will of the Graybeards—and descended the Throat of the World to willingly take part in the life of commoners once more, more importantly, to heed the call of The Great War."

"The language of the Gods?" I asked. For some reason, that part of his sentence stayed with me. I felt I knew enough about the gods, yet I've never heard they had a language of their own.

"Tell me, Vilkas," Kodlak continued, ignoring, or simply not hearing, my question, "what is the old nordic word for war?"

Aela and I both turned our heads to look at Vilkas—oddly transfixed, both of us.

He gave us both a look, head-turning between the two of us, almost embarrassed, no, pressured, before he calmed and leaned forward as he looked steadily at back at Kodlak. " _Season unending_ ," he said.

"Aye," Kodlak said. "Season unending. A fitting word for a race raised in frozen turmoil. And Ulfric, raised in ways older than any common man, knew this word well. I do not know the teachings of the Graybeards, but I do know one thing; The Great War had started.

"Now this is why Ulfric stood out. He was still a young man back then, but he was no longer a boy. But raised in the ways of old by the Graybeards themselves he knew, and knows, of our ancient traditions—traditions I studied by book, he studied by life—and so, young as he was, he already carried an old soul, and any old Nord soul would gladly heed the call of battle. It is not much unlike the same principle we—The Companions—live for; glory in battle, honor in death. He heard its call and heeded, feeling… whatever, and in doing so he turned his back on his own destiny and forged his own path. Descended in his own faith…"

Vilkas seemed transfixed as I glanced over at him; leaning more than forward on his knees as his thumb stroked back and forth in the palm of his other hand. He always fancied history, didn't matter what, when, or why, if it happened before his time he ate it up.

Aela, on the other hand, had sunken deeper back into her chair, arms still crossed and lame eyes that said please-get-to-the-point without the 'please.'

While Farkas, who still hadn't said a word, remained as a leaning statue by the door, he too still had his arms crossed and his face hung low as he seemed to glare down into the floor. Hard to tell if he was listening or if he was locked within that absent void that was his own head; his own little room of nothingness.

"I do not know of his prowess in the war nor the details around him at the time, most likely made secret by the empire as many things were back then," Kolak continued, "But once returned, the war over, Ulfric was branded as a War Hero, famed across all of Skyrim as a wielder of the Thu'um—The Voice of Old.

And even though Ulfric had betrayed his role as a Graybeard, his fame only grew. His father even forgave him his obedience—abandoning his studies with the Graybeards—and took him back by his side in Windhelm where Ulfric soon took up study to one day replace him, and, after Hoag's death, he did.

Hard to say when or where Ulfric's lust for ambition started, but it was surely before this time, for now, as the Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric continued his campaign of old belief: His open support to Talos, the Markarth incident, his oppositions to the White-Gold Concordant, his gray-area politic, numerous disagreements with the High King, and now, his opposing, and open challenge, against High King Torygg himself. A challenge that, as we now know, have resulted in his death. And he's never been dishonest nor dishonorable in his intentions in any of these things.

"Now, as I started, most Jarls punish disobedience with cold disregard. But Ulfric is a man of the old ways, and, more importantly, a man of action. And by action, he has proven his worth before your times and now, you young ones, even in your times.

"I am not ashamed, nor so naive, as to not admit: I feel that man holds a far greater understanding of our ways of old, than I myself. A deeper sense of honor than I comprehend. _That_ is why I always question his intent and never hold him in disregard. My sense of honor as Harbinger is restricted to the Companions alone, but Ufric Stormcloak's sense of honor transcends that of mine and envelopes the entirety of Skyrim. In short, it is a matter of responsibility that separates us—the volume of it. That is the role of Harbinger, to see and separate that ever-moving invisible line solely to avoid taking sides. Yet now, with you, here we are: a choice pushed, even forced upon you."

He was looking at me.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, honestly confused by the purpose of it all.

"Because unlike those who've chosen to take part in this upcoming conflict…" Kodlak started, "Your side has already been handed to you. You take it as irony that you have no choice in the matter of leaving or not, but ironic still is the fact that you have no choice at all in the side, the Empire is the side you've been handed."

"And that's a bad thing?" I asked.

"That is not for me to say." he said with a calming gesture as he softly turned his head for my letter before looking back, "But you should at least know your opponent."

"And that's why you're telling me of Ulfric?" I asked again.

"Unlike most others, you don't have the luxury of choosing sides. But you always have the luxury of thought. Ask yourself, young one, given the choice, which side would you choose."

"As you said, I don't have that choice so why spend the thought," I said, "Besides, it's just like any other contract; do as told and I'll get paid. I don't see what difference it makes."

"Ah, the mindset of a Companion," he said, leaning back, "I'm afraid things aren't as easy as that outside of our mead hall, nor as simple."

"Isn't it?" I said in disagreement, "And you're saying our lives are? ¨Simple¨? ¨Easy¨?"

"You know that's not what I meant," he said calmly, "But as a Companion, we fight for _our own_ honor. _Live_ for our own honor. As a soldier, you'll be fighting, and living, for someone else's."

"You know what?" I started, about to say something foolish before I took a breath and stopped myself. "You know what?" I started anew with a new thought, "To me, it's either my father leaves and dies, or I leave and he doesn't. To me, it _is_ as simple as that. I don't need any other thought—eyes on the prey, not the horizon."

"Aye," he said with a brief pause, " _Eyes on the prey, not the horizon:_ our motto of old. Do you know of its origin?" he asked, looking up at me from his chair with that patient look of his as if the question itself had given the answer.

I didn't know, not did I care. But I wasn't about to say that out loud, so I only looked back at him knowing he'd tell me either way.

"It goes back to the time of Ysgramor and the five-hundred Companions. Perhaps even a time before that, when Man still roamed on Atmora—the land of our ancestors…

Again? Another lesson by history, is it? By Ysmir.

"…In their tongue, a language lost to the ages, a single word could be interpreted as many a thing depending on context. And as it happens their word for ' _prey'_ held the same meaning as ' _origin of attack'_ , or ' _opponent'_ if you will.

"You see, to the Atmorans, _eyes on the prey, not the horizon,_ was not a saying of philosophy as it is to us. But rather, a saying for the battlefield to keep one alive. To them, it was literal: _eyes on the opponent, not that which is behind him."_

Funny, that's the first thing Vilka's told me after our first duel: _First rule in a fight, never let your opponent out of sight._

"And I care about this because?…" I asked with a drift-away voice.

"It's interesting, is it not? How a saying, so obvious to any self-respecting warrior, over time took on a meaning of deep philosophy even though it was never intended as such," he continued, clearly ignoring my say. "We, today—us Companions—interpret it as _'no need to understand the bigger picture,'_ or _'don't meddle in politics,'_ and so on. Yet you…" I thought it impossible but he somehow leaned back even further in his chair, making it seem as if he looked down on me even though he was sitting—something the old man rarely did: look down on people. "…You seem to have taken on its meaning as something else entirely."

He remained in his chair looking at me with that look of his: as if he saw straight into one's soul. Suddenly, something felt off, uncomfortable, as if my stomach had clenched up and my muscles told me to remain still… stiff.

I didn't know what he was getting at but it felt as if my body did, and I didn't like it.

"Aah," he let out with an exhale, possibly, or, most likely seeing exactly what I suddenly felt. "Yes, you've simplified it in it's meaning, perhaps drawn it back to its roots, but simplified it still: o _ne thing at a time_ , is it not? And _only_ one thing at a time, nothing in between; ¨ _one_ contract before the other,¨ ¨ _one_ thought at a time,¨ ¨to me, it _is_ simple,¨ ¨the _only_ thing I need to know.¨

Again, he gave that soul-searching look before he straightened himself up without breaking eye contact, "It's a distraction to you, is it not—eyes on the prey, not the horizon—a distraction to always keep you on the move; away from the thoughts in between, the pauses that make one think. It has rendered you simple-minded, not a trait you used to possess."

"That's not how it is, Kodlak," I said, not pleased in the slightest at the sudden turn our conversation had taken.

"I am sure you believe that," he said, "but I've been meaning to speak for you for quite some time now, but distant as you've been—both in body and mind—I've yet had the chance for it. Now, seems as fitting a time as any, perhaps the most fitting."

Here we go, I thought as I threw the others an annoyed look. Aela shrugged her shoulders in a don't-mind-us fashion and gave an uncaring look and Vilkas remained in his chair with a quiet look. Farkas still remained brooding in his spot with his arms crossed over his broad chest and his head tilted down with his sight set on the floor.

"We all carry our burdens, son," he continued as I looked back at him, "and your's is indeed a heavy one. But you've avoided it for far too long, and it has left you stuck in your ways—"

"I came here to tell you I'm leaving," I interrupted, temper growing short, "Not to get insulted or told how to handle my life."

"We've **all** lost loved ones," he suddenly said in a harsher tone. Not one of annoyance but rather the tone one takes on when lecturing a child. I only found it to be further insulting, I'd rather he show anger than the demeaning attire of a parent. "And we **all** carry our burdens. But not dealing with them, to ignore them, has never solved anything—and you've ignored yours for far too long—it is dealing with them, no matter how hard, that brings one forward."

"Really?" I snarked with bite, "Skjor?! And you think that compares to—"

"You're a Companion!" he said out loud with an even sterner tone than before and a harch look in his eyes. Like a slap to the face, it instantly shut up. "We deal with our problems head-on. We don't ignore them, and we don't turn them our backs. And we **don't** avoid them by bringing up the grief of others…"

¨Bringing up the grief of others,¨ isn't that what he had done? Was doing?

"That behavior is unfitting not only warriors of our standard, but any man, woman, or child. You're a Companion—a member of The Circle" he repeated, "Act like it."

He fell quiet as we remained locked in eye contact that only grew harder. "Well," I finally said, straightening myself back, "I'm leaving. So perhaps I won't be a Companion for much longer."

Hard to say what he thought about that, but his eye contact remained as hard.

"Pff!" Aela suddenly let out sharply, ending the uncomfortable silence, "You'll be fine," she said with her usual sting, "You're moon-born! You could take on half the ¨Stormcloak's¨ with your bare hands, and even if you do get injured you'll heal in days what takes others weeks, months."

" _Confidence_ is certainly a tool," Kodlak said in a hard voice as he broke eye contact and looked over at Aela, "but _overconfidence_ is a _fool's_ tool. I've seen far too many strong warriors—capable of slaying foes in the dozens—who've fallen foolishly and blindly to stray arrows or numbers alone as they inevitably tire. There are no _duels_ on the battlefield, _luck_ plays a grander role than _skill_. And no matter one's skill, there is no knowing the outcome." The second he finished speaking to Aela he looked back at me with that same hard look. Gave me the feeling he had more lecturing on his mind. "But she has a point, yet another downside of your decision," his thoughtful way of speech had returned as that hard tone soothed away. " _We_ have the Underforge in where to hide the true nature of our curse. So do understand, there is no Underforge out there." He finished.

"That's my problem," I said in response. But I'd lie if I said his statement hadn't struck my mind before. Riften had plenty of deep forests to hide, and hunt, in, I can only hope the same holds true in Solitude, or wherever I'll end up afterward. "I'll figure something out."

"Take heed that you do," Kodlak said, "Even if you're no longer with us… If your true nature was to come out, it wouldn't take a clever mind to put one and two together. And a soldier can't come and go as he pleases, it might not always be so easy to… _sneak off_ when needed. You might put us all in jeopardy.

"I said I'll figure something out, didn't I?" I snarked.

"What do you think, Farkas?" Vilkas suddenly said, surely to change the subject, "You've been quiet so far."

Farkas didn't look up as I turned for him, but remained brooding for a while where he stood.

"Fighting for someone else's cause?" he grumbled, still without looking up, "There's no honor in that."

But of course, not surprised Farkas was still pondering on the beginning of our discussion. "This isn't about honor," I told, growing tired of explaining the same damn thing over and over again, "It's about my father! Nothing else."

"Even less in dying for it," he grumbled on as he clearly ignored me.

"Get it through your skull, Farkas. This isn't hard to understand," I said as he finally looked up at me. "It's as simple as it gets: I _don't_ have a choice."

"I'd never throw away my honor for someone else's," he said and uncrossed his arms, "that's not our way."

"Oh, by Ysmir," I let out. But before I could continue he turned to opened the double-door and left the room without saying another word, shutting the doors behind him as he abruptly left.

I didn't know how to react to that. I felt one part angry annoyance and one part… something else. Either way, it made me feel tired of it all.

"Don't judge Farkas too harshly," Vikas said, "He just doesn't want you to leave, and that's his way of showing it. He'll miss you, we all will," he finished as I looked over at him.

"Aye," Kodlak said, "Be things as they may, we are all sad to see you leave."

"Well I am leaving," I said one last time, "So I guess I should get packing—I already made preparations with a carriage for tomorrow."

"Well you don't waste time sitting around, I hear," Vilkas pitted in, "Didn't you get here this morning?"

I gave him a look that could only be described as tired. And I sighed.

"I almost envy you" Aela suddenly said."

"How so?" I asked, not knowing if I wanted her to answer.

"You're going to war," she said, with a crooked smile"Imagine the battles you'll get to fight, the opponents you'll face—I'm sure there'll be some strong ones. The tales you'll get to tell after. Who knows, you might even get to face off against Ulfric himself," she finished with a raise of her eyebrow.

"That, I doubt," Kodlak said and I looked over at him. "A man who leads his own men and woman, I doubt he'll be fighting from anywhere but behind a planning table."

"Don't be so sure," Aela told him, "Didn't you say he's a man of actions? Values the old ways? I'd think a man like that, who ¨leads his own men and woman,¨ wouldn't hesitate to stand on the battlefield himself."

"Aye," Kodlak said, "That may be. But the truly strong no longer needs to wield a blade, the mind is their weapon."

"The truly strong are the ones left standing," Aela said confidently, yet with a duller tone, as she leaned her elbow on the small table and looked away from him.

¨The truly strong are the ones left standing,¨ I repeated in my mind. Skjor used to say that.

"That too," Kodlak responded to her comment, "But don't underestimate the minds behind any and all battles, a sharp mind lais waste to many more lives than any sharp blade ever could. Tiber Septim, at the height of his power, ruled from behind a desk as his empire conquered all of Tamriel. Even Ysgramor himself would not have succeeded as he did, had he not his five-hundred companions who followed."

"But Ysgramor never fought from behind a desk, did he?" she said sarcastically as to disprove him.

"Much of history from those times are long lost to us, who is to say how things truly were."

"Anyway," I said as I no longer felt like listening to either history or any other subject we had touched on today, "I'm gonna go pack."

"Of course," Kolak said, turning his attention to me, "But one last thing…"

"By Shor what now?"

"This might be an obvious statement, youngling. But you do understand, that armor stays here."

"I know," I said as I turned for the door. Except for the obvious reasons, the design of this armor carries too many hints at who I am… what _we_ are: the secret we need to protect. "I know," I repeated tiredly and left his chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't say when the next one will be out, but it might take a while with all the holidays coming up.
> 
> I'll try and work on both my fics at the same time (The murder of wayrest and this one) to get them done quicker.
> 
> Until next time.  
> Thank you for reading and drop a comment if you feel like sharing a thought.


	3. Do you feel Guilt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it!  
> I managed to scrape the next one out before new-years.
> 
> This chapter actually ends where I had intended for the last one to end,  
> which is why I managed to get it written so quickly.  
> (It was mostly done inside my head.)
> 
> That said, I'll work on the next Murder of Wayrest next, so it might take a while before I get around to writing the next chapter on this one.  
> But I assume most of you have gotten used to that by now, hehe. (my bad)
> 
> So, Enjoy the chapter!  
> I always love to hear your thoughts on the chapter,  
> so drop a comment if you feel like sharing. :)  
> And Happy new year!

I couldn't find a single dent. Not a chip, nick, notch, or scratch. All of that dull-gray metal on my armor looked as new as the day it was made, no show of wear or tear whatsoever, only the fursuit beneath and the sturdy leather straps holding it together showed signs of usage—I had even replaced a few over the years—but the metal itself was as flawless as ever.

The eternal steel of the Skyforge.

All steel that came out of Eorlund's Skyforge was like that. Nails, armor, tools, or blades, it made no difference. Even the steel _I_ made held together like that.

I heard rumors every now and then, doubts, that Eorlund only was as good a smith as he was because of his forge. And sure, the quality of the steel was all because of the Skyforge, I couldn't deny that. I doubt even Eorlund could, he's too self-aware. But it wasn't the quality of the steel that defined Eorlund's craftsmanship, it was everything else.

The design of the armor itself was masterful: The buttons holding it together both as a way for the leather straps not to break, were a lycanthrope to wear it while transforming, as well as the ability for one to don it without the help of another: the shape of the platings, measured and shaped to fit on my body and my body alone like a second set of skin: The engravings—the pack of wolves—on the chest plate that rivaled, perhaps even put to shame, any decorative armor of a noble: and of course the vambraces, the vambraces where the metal itself was shaped into the heads, the faces, of wolves biting down on one's wrists, so detailed one could feel every crevice and tooth, touch every element and detail, even the fur. No mold did that… _could_ do that.

The Skyforge alone could not make this, it was all made by the hands of Eorlund—Master of steel.

Such a shame that he'll most likely melt it down the second I leave—It's shaped after my body and won't fit anyone else, and steel is expensive.

* * *

As I sat in my room under the candlelight, reminiscing memories on my armor as it sat on its mannequin, it all began to sink in. Really sink in.

_I'm leaving…_

A feeling of melancholy; I'll miss this place. Over the years, with everything that has happened, it really has become my home. More than my home.

There was a knock on my door, pulling me from my lonely state.

"Come in," I said with a sigh, lifting my elbows from my knees and straightening myself up in my chair.

Vilkas stood in the doorway as he pushed the door open with his foot, holding two plates of food.

"You're up early," I said as he entered.

"That's funny, coming from you," he answered as he handed me one of the plates and leaned his behind against my desk beside me.

"Thank you," I said as I took the plate. "Yeah, I couldn't sleep. Spent most night polishing my armor to make time pass."

"You should thank Tilma," he said as he made himself comfortable and grabbed his spoon for a bite, "She got up early to make this especially for you."

"Hm," I let out as I looked at the plate in my lap: venison stew with a piece of bread soaking in it. The broth smelled rich. Stew? In all my years she's never made anything but porridge for breakfast.

"I see you've packed," he said as he ate, hinting at the sack on my bed.

"Yeah…," I said and rose from my chair to move and sit on my bed, gesturing for him to take the seat. "I was just about to leave," I said as I sat down and watched him take his seat.

"Before sunrise? You're not going to say goodbye to the others?" he said, rather than asked—I saw he already knew the answer, so I didn't answer, I only looked down into the stew and began to eat. "I think they'll be sour with you for that," he said, "Ria most of all."

"She always was the sensitive type," I said, eating.

"Aye," he said with a slight smile, "Not at all like Njada and Aela."

"No," I let out, feeling the humor. "I doubt those two will even notice I'm gone."

"Oh, they'll miss you," he said. "We'll all miss you. But you know how we are—not the most sensitive of bunches."

"Ha."

We sat for a while. Ate in silence.

"You know why you're leaving, don't you?" he suddenly said, still looking into his bowl of stew.

"Because of my father," I answered without lifting my head, "Though I made that clear yesterday."

"I meant the _real_ reason," he continued, this time looking up as I, too, looked up at him.

"Not you too," I said, a hint of annoyance running through me, "So that's why you're here?"

"Mostly to say goodbye, but that too," he said.

With a deep sigh, I looked aside before looking back, showing my frustration.

"Don't take me wrong," he said, "I think it might be good for you. To get away for a while."

"Other than Riften?" I said sourly.

"I meant all of this. Jorrvaskr, The Companions… Whiterun. To get some time to think."

I didn't answer. It all felt frustrating, angering even. This was never something I wanted to talk about; felt like talking about.

"You know he's right, don't you?" he said after a brief pause, "The old man."

"I know!" I said, frustration growing sharper, "That's the most frustrating part about him, he's always right." Vilkas looked at me with those silver-blue eyes, waiting for more. "Just **once** I'd wish he'd say something stupid. But he never does, does he?"

"No," he said with a slight chuckle—made my anger soothe, "That man will probably teach Shor himself a thing or two about wisdom when he meets him in Sovngarde."

"Ysgramor too," I added, suddenly feeling like laughing—but I didn't.

Vilkas did chuckle before he again turned silent and a bit broody, "Bringing up Skjor was uncalled for," he said.

"I know," I said, suddenly feeling bad about myself—I still blamed myself for his death, and… all deaths. And again that hollow feeling came creeping over me like a cold draft. "I just... lost my temper a bit." In hindsight, it was an assy move. "Could you apologize to Aela from me for that one?" I asked him and looked up.

"Sure," he said.

"She'll act uncaring," I continued, "but I know she'll—"

"Aye, I'll tell her," he interrupted with a nod.

And we both returned to eating—sharing each other's company in silence as we ate—until Vilkas put his plate on my desk and rose to look at my armor.

"I see you polished it well," he said, grabbing his wolf-head-shaped belt-buckle with both hands as he looked at it.

"You can tell?" I asked as I placed my empty plate on the side of my bed and looked over at the armor.

"Not in the slightest," Vilkas said and turned for me with a smile.

It almost made me laugh, made both of us almost laugh. But it felt sour-sweet.

"I don't know how Eorlund does it," he said, "but his armors looks dirty and clean at the same time, and never anything else."

"Yeah," I said in agreement.

"Did he ever teach you how he does it?" he asked, "To make it gray?"

"No," I said, "He told me once he was saving that secret for one of his sons—whoever decides to inherit his trade—but I have the feeling he'll be taking it to his grave. They don't seem interested in the Skyforge."

"Aye, a shame," he said, looking back at the armor.

"All I know is that it doesn't affect the quality of his steel, or he'd do it on all the steel he makes—Companion armor only, The Circle."

"Hm," he let out and walked up to it and studied it for a while. "You should keep the vambraces," he suddenly said and began strapping them of the mannequin without hessitation.

"Kodlak said—"

"I know what Kodlak said," he interrupted. "But you've been with us for a long time, you should have something to remember us by," he said and handed me the pair—without the split-buttoned gloves that went with them.

"Vilkas…" I started, "I don't think the Empire lets it's soldiers bring their own armor pieces."

"They'd be fools to turn down a soldier wearing Eorlund's work," he said, holding out the two pieces in front of me, "Besides, you think their metal is anywhere near as good a protection as these?"

"I…" I hesitated—about to decline, but I didn't. "Thank you," I said as I accepted them.

"Don't mention it," he said as I strapped them to my arms and drew my fingers over grey steel, feeling its details with a sigh as I've done many times before. It always felt relaxing in a way.

"Well," I began and rose from the bed, reaching for my bag and tossed it over my shoulder, "I should get going.

"That's all you're bringing with you?" he asked, nodding at the size of it.

"Actually, when I started packing I didn't know what to bring," I said, looking over my shoulder at the bag before looking back at him. "I mean, the Empire will provide most of what I need, won't they? Clothes, gear, armor…"

"So… what did you bring?" he asked with curiosity.

"Food for the trip, mostly—dried meat and such," I said, feeling awkward and odly embarrassed, but I pushed the feelings back down. Vilkas didn't, he laughed at me. "I did bring some clothes," I said, "For the trip. Shaving gear. My savings."

"Well Solitude is two or three weeks away, wouldn't want to show up in dirty clothes would you?" he said jokingly as he stopped laughing.

"But I _will_ bring these," I said and reached for my dagger and attached it to my belt, and then my axe. The axe is mine, I made it, and no one, not even the Empire, could take it away from me.

"Aye," Vilkas said as I took the hooked leather strap and pulled it over my shoulder, and sheeted the axe on my back with those two satisfying metal clicks: the axe-head attaching to the hook behind my knees and then. the handle, to the hook behind my shoulder. "I'll walk with you," he said, holding out my cape for me as I had finished.

* * *

"Tilma," I greeted as we walked up the stairs and entered the main hall.

She stood over a large pot by the freshly lit fire, cooking breakfast, as she looked over. Smelled like porridge. Guess the stew really was only for me… and Vilkas, who most likely was lucky—right time and place.

"Did you bring the dishes?" she asked kindly as we approached, Vilkas holding the two bowls. "Leave them on the table, would you," she said with a nod for the table as she continued stirring the pot with that giant wooden ladle that required the use of both her old scrawny hands. "I hope it was to your liking?"

"I assume you know," I said: why else would she have gotten up this early only to make me stew.

"Oh, Kodlak told me everything, dear," she said, smiling at me as she continued stirring the thick porridge. "Such a shame, I went out and bought ingredients for a good venison-roast I had planned for dinner. But now I guess everyone's getting stew instead."

"Don't be like that, old haggard," Vilkas said jokingly, "We can still have roast for dinner."

"Ha! And celebrate his return when he's left?" she said and gave him a sharp, yet humored, look, squinting her eyes, "Pf! As if you lot would get to eat any better than he did? No, you'll eat what I make you."

"Fair enough," Vilkas said in accepted and expected defeat.

"Thank you for the stew, Tilma," I said and she turned that sharp look on me, "It was good."

"It better have been," she said, "I had to get up earlier than _you_." She almost sounded pissed but I knew she wasn't—the tone of a lecturing mother. Her look softened, "Such a shame to see one of my children leave," she said, her voice growing softer and she let go of the wooden ladle and wiped them clean in her apron.

"Your children?" I let out a snort for her comment as I looked at her, "I'm not so much of a child anymore, am I?"

"Oh, you'll always be children to me," she said, face and eyes growing even softer. Were they… teary? "Come here," she said and held out her arms for a hug.

I let out a complaining sound from my throat and turned my head away from both her and Vilkas; this was getting awkward. But she took a step toward me and embraced me either way.

"I'll miss you," she said as she pressed her cheek against my lower chest, arms hugging tight around my waist.

With a sigh, I moved my arms and hugged her back. She was so short and small—or I was tall, would be more accurate—barely reaching to my chest. "The Mother of Jorrvaskr, eh," I said.

"And don't you forget it," she mumbled into my chest and her old arms squeezed tighter.

"I'll miss you too," I bitterly admitted in a low voice, feeling her old white hair beneath my fingers.

This is why I didn't want to wait around for all the others. This is nothing but awkward, embarrassing, and… oddly painful. Almost too painful all of a sudden.

"Well…" I started, letting go of her before it all became too much, "I need to leave now. Before the carriage leaves without me."

"Don't think I'm dumb," she said softly, "No carriages leave this early." still she gave one last squeeze before she let go of me and stepped back to look me over.

"Yeah, well," I said awkwardly and corrected the bag over my shoulder.

She wasn't wrong, I wasn't leaving early because of the carriage, I was leaving early to avoid moments like these.

"Well go ahead," she said reassuringly with a proud face and a wave of her hand. "Away with you. Both of you."

Vilkas gave a push on my shoulder with his fist.

"The other will get to say their say when you come back," Tilma said, "And then, and not until then, will I make that roast."

"Hey!" Vilkas fretted and looked at her in protest.

"Oh, hush with you," she said sharply with a wave of her finger and returned to stir in her pot.

And we left.

* * *

Most of the sky in front of us still held that deep dark purple hue as we exited Jorrvaskr into the cold spring-morning air, but there was a lighter tone of frost-blue above and behind us, and, on the other side of Jorrvaskr—to the east—I'm sure a white-yellow light was already growing across the horizon, predestinating the sunrise, even though we couldn't see it.

This must be the first time I've ever walked down the stairs from Jorrvaskar and not be greeted by the wailing prayers of Heimskr. The lack of screaming-to-the-heavens was much appreciated, a relief even.

That's the one thing I don't think I'll ever miss.

Actually, now that I was listening in on it, the entire city was quiet. And empty. It had yet to awaken. Even the stray animals were still asleep.

I preferred it this way, being alone where one usually wasn't alone. And walking in the silent company of Vilkas didn't disrupt that feeling; I still felt alone.

The giant statue of Talos—looking down on us with dead eyes—only added to that brooding feeling as we descended the stairs. Is that how my home takes farewell of me? Judgemental eyes delivered by a god: cold and uncaring.

"The marketplace?" Vilkas said, hinting a direction, as we approached the Gildergreen: nothing but a skeleton of a tree freezing in the chill morning breeze.

"Why?" I asked, "It's a lot shorter if we walk through the Wind District."

"And then you'll have to wait longer for the carriage," he said with a fair point.

"Sure," I folded, after all, I no longer needed to pretend rush and hurry: Jorraskr's well behind us now.

So we turned by the old dying three and wandered through the tiny park, down the wide main-street between all the wooden log buildings with fenced-off backyards, until we reached the stairs leading down to the marketplace.

I remember the first time I ascended these stairs, wearing that old, oversized, and rusty iron armor my father had gotten me; my father's old sword by my hip. I wonder what happened to that old blade… Aah, that's right: Eorlund melted it down when he made me that larger sword I wielded for a while. The larger sword I wanted only to impress Skjor. The sword I later on melted down to make my axe.

That was so many years ago. Feels like a lifetime ago. No, it _is_ a lifetime ago—I most certainly wasn't the same person then as I am now. In so many ways. Few good ones.

I… remember how nervous I was. By Ysmir, nothing but a farmer's son walking the steps to the most renowned warriors of all of Skyrim. My heart had been pounding like a woodpecker every step of the way and I had been stuttering every other word I spoke.

Whatever gave me the courage?

Rolf had. His death was the reason for it all. The reason it all began. Only because I never wanted that to happen again… how naive I was.

I had failed him. And I sought out the Companions to never fail another, to never see another loved one die. Yet, after that, I've never done anything but fail.

I failed Rolf because I was a coward who chose to run instead of lifting my bow.

I failed Skjor because I chose to be late to something I had no reason to be late too.

I failed Ysolda because I was too afraid to kill someone who clearly, beyond measurement, should have been killed the second I laid eyes on her.

And I failed Jida simply because I never even realized she existed… until it was all too late.

By Ysmir, I never should have joined the Companions. But then… I never would have met her.

"Something wrong?" Vilkas suddenly asked.

I was clenching my chest through my yellow tunic with my left hand, or rather, clenching the ring on my neckless through the fabric with my pain-pounding hand.

"No," I said and lowered my hand—almost hid it—by my thigh as he walked on my right. I clenched my fist a few times for the stinging in the bones: like a migraine-inducing toothache. But no matter how many times I clenched it, without touching her ring, it remained to pound."Just… some old memories."

"Aye," he said and turned his head forward, "Can't escape those."

"No," I said in a low voice.

_Do I regret joining the Companions?_

"Do you remember our first duel?" I asked while looking down at the steps in front of us to take my mind off of things and, more importantly, to make Vilkas believe those were the memories I was thinking of.

"Ha!" he laughed once, "I had you on your ass before you swung your first swing."

"You did," I admitted, trying to hide the sad tone in my voice, "and I was so confident too."

"I noticed. But that's what you get for going against someone who's been _wielding a sword since he was seven_ ," he said joyfully with an obvious hint of pride.

"You know, I thought you were an arrogant prick back then," I said as we closed in on the bottom of the stairs.

"And I thought you were a spoiled brat who needed to be taught a lesson," he answered with a laugh.

"I was never spoiled."

"But you were a brat who needed to be taught a lesson."

"Ha," I let out. He was probably right.

"And then out last duel?" He continued.

"Yeah, that's a long time ago."

"Before Skjor," he said, a shared hint of solemn in his voice. "You gave me a nosebleed that time."

"Not the first time I made you bleed," I said, a small smile at the corner of my lips

"Aye, but it was the first time you made me lose my footing—had me taste gravel."

"Still you won."

"And I always will."

The marketplace was void and empty. A flat, circular, surface of cobblestone ground surrounded by empty wooden stands with a stone-well in the middle. A wooden bucket abandoned on its side at the base of it.

You could see the sunrise from here, well, not the horizon but the sky turning light blue and yellow above the Bannered Mare: The city Inn, or tavern—or whatever you wanted to call it.

_¨Once I've made enough money trading with the Khajiit caravans, I'm going to buy The Bannered Mare from Hulda.¨_

Her voice. Again…

"Did you know I once helped Farkas with a ¨contract¨ here?" I asked, looking at the Bannered Mare.

"No," he said, slightly surprised and equally curious.

"He was still showing me the ropes back then, showing me the city mostly."

"Farkas?" he said in humored doubt, "Showing you the ropes?"

"He was showing me the city," I corrected admittingly and looked over at him, "And it wasn't really a contract." He looked at me, waiting for me to continue. "We were only walking by and Farkas suddenly said he heard… ¨something fun going on inside¨. I hadn't heard anything of notice, thought he was joking, but after I turned moon-born I figured how he had heard."

"Aye," he said, still listening.

"So we went inside and was faced with this… obnoxious high-nosed drunk who was groping every bar-maid in his reach and shouting insults at people, laughing all the while—something the city-guards should handle."

"Aye," he repeated.

"There were guards present, but Farkas told me he'd ¨show me how a real Companion handles thing.¨ So he walked up to the man, to talk, as I stayed back—"

"To talk?" Vilkas interrupted surprised, "That doesn't sound like him."

"No," I said in agreement, "I guess he wanted to impress me because I was new. Anyway, so he walked up to talk to the man, to tell him to behave or something. Didn't take long for the drunk to laugh him in his face, ¨young brat,¨ he called him. Still, Farkas kept face and tried to talk some more, but you know how he is."

"Aye, not the best talker."

"¨Slow,¨ he called him, ¨learn to talk like someone with a brain,¨ and so on."

"Ouch," Vilkas said, seeing where the story was going.

"Right. Farkas saw red, flipped the entire long-table with one hand along with everything and everyone around it before I knew what was happening, sent the man flying as his barstool tipped over. None of the guards moved—they knew he was a Companion—and we watched as the drunk spewed insults and crawled over the mead covered floor as Farkas stepped over him—towered over him, actually. I thought he was going to kill him at the time."

"Aye."

"But he reached down and grabbed him by the back of his expensive-looking collar, dragged him along the floor. He wasn't laughing anymore; ¨My mother will hear of this,¨ he shouts while clinging to Farkas's arm above his head, ¨You have no idea who you're dealing with,¨ the usual nonsense. Farkas paid no heed, he kept dragging him across the room with one hand and… I swear there was this yellow glow in his eyes that sent chills down my spine. I thought I had imagined it at the time, but, as I said, now I know better."

"Aye."

"He threw him straight out the door and he rolled down the stairs, landed right here. Right where we stand," I said, looking down at the frosty dew-covered cobblestone beneath our feet. "I never knew who he was, until a couple of years later."

"That so?"Vilkas said.

"In Riften," I said, looking up, "Shortly after I became a circle member. Siggy Blackbriar, the son of Maven Blackbriar—founder of the Blackbriar meadery—and, on top of it all, he's in jail now."

"What for?" Vilkas asked.

"No idea," I admitted. "Groping women, I guess," I joked, "But here's the thing, I heard some rumors down there that he had come here to sabotage the Honeybrew Meadery—corporate espionage and what-not—and he failed because Farkas got him thrown out of the city."

"Ha," Vilkas laughed, sounding both surprised and impressed.

"That's why the guards here couldn't jail him here—because of who his mother was—but they sure could throw him out of the city."

"So my brother saved the Homebrew meader," he laughed jokingly, although it wasn't a joke at all.

"And all because he couldn't leave the bar-maids alone."

Again, a moment when we both should laugh, but that 'knot' in my stomach told me not to and Vilkas laughed as I smiled along.

"I've sparred against Farkas many times," I started as Vilkas settled, "but I've never seen him like that since—that look in his eyes."

"Aye," he said. "My brother has too good of a heart. Even when serious, it's always fun and games when he fights, and he could never fight seriously against someone he likes—He's too afraid he'd hurt you."

"Sure," I agreed

"But trust me," Vilkas said, "If he ever _did_ fight you seriously, wanted you dead, with _that_ look in his eyes… you wouldn't stand a chance."

"I don't doubt that for a second," I said. "That man's a beast."

"In more ways than one, aye," he said, looking around in thought, "He's always been the stronger one out of the two of us. For as long as I remember."

And still, Vilkas is the one I've never defeated.

"Let's go," I said. Felt like enough reminiscing.

I glanced to the side as we walked, I had no intention to do so, yet I glanced down that narrow street past all the tiny stands and shops: The street to _our_ home. But as we walked, and the street in my view bent, I could not look further. I did not wish to see the house I abandoned; the beginning of a life we could have had. The beginning of happiness.

What would that be like? The picture of a four-year-old playing in the streets with other children. Scraping chubby knees against the stone and sharing laughter through puffy cheeks…

Guess I do have a fantasy of happiness—sad as it may be: Us, walking in a park, me and Ysolda with our daughter between us: holding hands as we walk. And that's it, nothing further felt needed in my imagination. Simple happiness. Only, in my imagination, I'd never let her go.

Now it stood empty—my house—abandoned, cold, and dark, without any hopes for a future. Yet another skeleton in my closet göaring at me through dead hollow eye sockets, and who had I to blame for leaving it there? Depressing.

I still had the key… somewhere in my bag. Gathering rust like a festering wound growing uglier with each year. Hopefully, one day the rust will consume it and it will be no more… but what will remain then? What will remain but another void of another thing I used to cherish. Emptiness.

I sighed, a sudden smell of herbs and… honeyed tea?

"Interesting how the mind works, isn't it?.." A kind woman's voice suddenly spoke.

I stopped and looked forward, Vilkas, too, had stopped beside me to look at her.

An old woman stood before us, holding an old basket out of dried braided twigs. Gray-white hair and a wrinkled old face with a clear, innocent, and soft smile. Muddy white eyes that looked straight at me. A feeble old woman.

"You?" I said as I recognizing her. I hadn't seen her since… that day after Ysolda's funeral.

"…Using _pain_ to distract you of your thoughts," she continued with a nod directed at my hand.

I looked down and realized I was clenching my chest again, the ring beneath, and quickly lowered it as I looked back at her, hiding my clenched hand by my side.

"How long has _that_ been going on?" she asked kindly, still, with a soft smile.

Ever since I got the scar. But I didn't answer that, I didn't answer at all as I looked at her, suddenly feeling tense, for I had the feeling she didn't ask for an answer—something with the tone in her question—she asked to remind me of the answer myself. Why?

"I wonder…" she said, briefly looking over at Vilkas with those muddy eyes before she looked back at me, "Is it to _protect_ you from your thoughts, or to _punish_ you for them? But then, those things are both caused by guilt. Do you feel guilty, dear?"

"What do you want?" I asked monotonously. This all felt… suspicious to say the least—the wolf in me felt as if on guard: a feeling, instinct, I had long since come to trust.

She smacked her lips and looked over at Vilkas, "Would you kindly give us some privacy, dear," she said.

Vilkas gave me a look and I responded with a sideways nod, "It's fine," and he gave the old woman another brief look before he shifted and reluctantly retreated away.

She looked at me, patiently, with that soft smile as she waited for Vikas to gain some distance. But even then she didn't speak as I looked back at her for a while before opening my mouth:

"What do you want," I asked again.

"It's not nice to eavesdrop, dear," she said softly with her eyes on me.

Her answer confused me, but then I realized she wasn't looking at me, but past me. I turned my head over my shoulder and looked at Vilkas in the distance. He gave me a stunned look as he stood holding his belt-buckle. He was far away enough that he shouldn't be able to hear us, but then again, with our ears, I knew he could clearly hear us. I knew it. And seemingly, so did she. Yet she only kept that kind wrinkly smile as I looked back at her.

Did she know? She had made me out for what I am—moon-born—the second I had presented her my hand. Had she known before that? Perhaps she knew about all of us.

I bit down and gave Vilkas another nod and he shied further away. Far enough to, this time, not be able to hear us.

I looked back at her, refusing to repeat my question again—If she had something to say she better say it.

"My, how big you've gotten," she said, looking me over, "as tall as they get."

"That why you're here? To tell me I've grown?"

Again, she looked at me with that smile for a while before she continued with a deep breath, "I had the feeling I should go for a walk today," she said, slowly looking around at the weather; drawing in the chill morning air. "Early as it is. And to think I almost walked the other way—through the Wind-District—but then I felt something changed your mind. For the better, I hope?"

So that's how it is then, no attempt at hiding it: The Seer. I didn't know what she expected for an answer, so, again, I didn't answer.

"It's been a while since we last saw," she said softly.

"I suppose," I said, thinking back as I looked at her.

When was it? Three… four? Four years ago? She didn't look much different from when I last saw her, perhaps a bit skinnier, meager. That's right—I remember now—she didn't have any family left; no children. She was all alone.

"Are you being taken cared of?" I asked. I think I asked the same question back then. I'm not sure.

"How kind of you to ask, dear," she said, "I might have lost some weight over the years, but that's just the old age showing." _¨Lost weight,¨ as if she had read my mind._ "But no," she continued, "There's no need to worry about me, I have more years left in me than you do," she said with a slightly crooked, but warm, smile.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked skeptically.

"About a handful, I'd say," she continued, giving a smile seemingly in thought before adding: "Ironic, isn't it?"

"What is?" More skepticism at her cryptic talk that felt disturbingly like more than empty talk.

"I told you, didn't I…" she said heartedly, surely answering the look I must be giving her, as she gave a nod at my hands, "that even _my_ death was written in there."

The suspicion grew and I briefly looked down at the palms of my hands before I looked back up at her; this conversation didn't feel so innocent anymore. Far from it. "What do you want?" I asked.

"Advice," she answered obviously, unaffected by my impatient tone. But at least she did answer.

"You didn't offer much advice last time." And I doubt she will now.

"I never claimed to," she said with a smile, "Last time, I only helped you find your way; showed you the path ahead of you so you could see that everything was going as intended—the path you're still walking. Nothing will ever change that," she finished with a slow reassuring shake of her head.

I couldn't help but snark in jaw-clenching disagreement and a sharp breath through my nose. I utterly refuse to believe my life has gone as ¨intended,¨ and if it has, I'd sure as Shor's bones would like to meet the _intender_. Now, wouldn't that be cruel? And I never did buy into all her talk of ¨faith.¨

"Oh, you have no idea. If only you knew," she smilingly said, again, shaking her head as if to tease. She drew for breath in a sigh, perhaps to draw her own focus on other things; perhaps, simply, to smell the air. "Now, things are finally getting interesting; it's an interesting new chapter of your life you're entering. The things you'll get to see. The places you'll get to visit. Not everything is a downside, no matter how boring it'll get from time to time. Boring is needed every now and then."

"Is that so?" I wasn't going to pretend I wasn't getting fed up by her know-it-all attitude, nor was I going to pretend ignorance at what she was talking about. I **should** be both surprised and confused that she knew I was leaving for the Empire, but I wasn't. Not anymore.

How did she know though?

"All things new are," she said, "Only idiots claim to gain something from denying new experiences, and reluctant, as most are, few ultimately come to regret the taste of the unknown. That's what they call curiosity, is it not?"

"I've never been the curious type," I said. "I'm not going out of curiosity."

"No," she said agreeing, "you're not. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't enjoy it. The things you don't feel like enjoying are usually the most worthwhile: the experiences that are forced upon you."

"And what do I have to enjoy."

"Ha," she let out to my surprise, "Nothing you'll ever admit out loud, but there are a few things: the thought of _me_ in a sauna, for example."

"That's… disturbing." I can't possibly imagine anything that would draw my mind to an aged, insane, and wrinkly old woman while naked in a room of steam. Even less, a reason to enjoy it.

"That's what old friends are for, dear, reminding you of disturbing thoughts under awkward circumstances," She said. It only made me feel more tense and awkward. "And nature," she continued and that soft warm smile regrew on her face as she looked at me. "You'll come to enjoy nature as you travel—all its crooks and crannies. You'll come to see that Skyrim isn't as ugly a place as you've convinced yourself it to be. Just remember to look up when things seem too black and white—there are more colors than gray out there."

"Look up, eh," I said. Same nonsense as last time, ugly or not, that comment would fit any dark moment. A seer, eh? Educated fraud is more like it, like Kodlak: good at reading people and good with her words—at least that's what I tried to convince myself to believe, ignoring the feeling that I was utterly wrong.

"Oh, don't worry too much about remembering that part, you'll be reminded of that too," she said, smiling even with her eyes; dim-white eyes. "But look at that," she said, again, suddenly looking past me. "Seems the market is opening, and my basket is empty."

I looked over my shoulder—behind me—and watched as a handful of people had begun opening their stands and prepared their wares to be sold. Furs and vegetables were placed or hung, all while other people broomed and dusted the thin layer of morning frost of their signs. The day was beginning. The sky was light. No clouds.

"You haven't offered any advice yet," I said as I looked back at her.

"Haven't I?" she said questioningly, tilting her head as she looked back at me. Yet she didn't look 'questioning' at all, she looked to enjoy herself. "Well then," she said gladly and sharp, "What ¨advice¨ would an upcoming soldier like to hear? ¨Stand straight, chest out, do as told!¨ that sort of things?"

"I—"

"No, of course not, only fools need to be advised on the obvious." She paused, looking at me as if she was studying me—made me feel more than uncomfortable—until she smacked her thin lips and tiny tongue and the smile regrew once again on her face, "No," she said. "You're no fool. Neither are you uninteresting. No, I may _know_ , but by the end, you'll _see_ more than I've ever done—I wonder what reason that desperate mind can conjure."

And suddenly, as I looked at her smile, I realized what that uncomfortable feeling within me was: Kodlak always paused to pay thought into his words, never speaking without thinking, but this woman? This feeble old woman? She didn't pause to pay thought, no, she spoke as if she already knew; she paused, not to think, but to make _me_ think. And I understood nothing.

"So let me give some advice then," she said sharply with a teasing look in her eyes:

"Eat with your friend while you still can, for no matter how dark, everyone deserves to laugh.  
"Ride on horses for travel you will, though avoid their eyes, their intent is to neigh.  
"Inner Circle is all behind, it's the Legates 'pup' that the pig will rub.  
"Kill the prayer I'd say before he tells, yet tell he will once his secret spill.  
"Wait a while and a blind eye she'll turn, you'll go right back home for honey and tome.  
"Icy old caves where the dead's left behind, those who stray far, will join them in par.  
"Little you know of old despair, yet the horns you'll find shall the future bind.  
"Lizards above flying so high, one black as mold the other one's charcoal.  
"Distant voices thundering high, on your knees they'll demand but for you, not a command.  
"In different directions, you both will wander, so say your goodbyes, next time there be cries.  
"Embrace the truth and results of your actions, two promises are broken, trial judgment is spoken.

"Again with the rhymes?" I said as she finished.

"Oh, don't think too much about the rhymes, dear," she said, "They're hardly the important part."

I sighed as I looked around, thinking it over. None of it made much sense, but neither had she made much sense last time. "Kill who?" I asked, at least that sentence seemed obvious, "What prayer?"

"Oh, you'll know him when you see him," she said with that teasing, annoying, isn't-it-obvious smile. "You'll _want_ to kill him, but you won't. Well, not that it matters, the end result will still be the same—just another drop in your bucket of crimes. Few things matter in the end, you'll see that one day—that we're all just insects trying to live in the grand scheme of things."

"Then why tell me anything? If it doesn't matter?"

"Oh, you dear little thing. Who said I was telling _you_ anything?"

As confusing an answer as ever—I should be used to that by now.

"But I'm afraid I must leave now," she said, hinting at her empty basket, "I like my eggs fresh, you see." She looked me over and smiled again, before she gave a relieved sigh, "Just ignore the ornaments and place fate in the braids and you'll do just fine," she said, "She's a trustworthy one. And do tell her you like her before you kill her, would you. She deserves it."

"Kill her? Another one?" I asked, for an old woman, she sure spoke casually about killing.

"Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself, that's more than far off from now: a lifetime beyond another." she said softly. "Until next time, it'll be far too long before we meet again."

"You say that as if we've met plenty."

She shook her head slightly before continuing as if she hadn't heard me, "But it won't be you I'll be meeting then, will it? Not really," she said, clearly ignoring my comment, "It's interesting… I can't tell if you'll be broken beyond repair, or whole beyond the point of unbreakable. But then again…" her smile grew wider, wrinkles spreading under her eyes, "There's hardly any difference between those two, is there? Perhaps you'll simply be," she said with a look that, again, said she knew more than she let on; a look that said I _should_ be figuring something out by now. But again, I figured nothing.

"Is that a question?" I asked, growing increasingly suspicious, and impatient: whatever her true motive for our conversation was, it didn't feel as if she meant it as a kind gesture.

"Can it be a question if you already know the answer?" she said cryptically, finally acknowledging my say.

"Rhetorical questions are still questions."

"Are they though?" she said with a tilt of her head. "I believe they have more in common with answers, answers in of themselves."

"And what answer would that be?"

"Now isn't _that_ the question?" she said, again, that wrinkling smile grew—eyes going thin.

By Shor, why are all the old people I meet like this?

"Just tell me what you want," I snapped as my patience for whatever game she's playing washed away. "Speak clearly."

"But I've told you, have I not?" she answered, "And now I really must leave, the market's open and I have the feeling the eggs will go fast today. I better hurry."

She finished and began walking toward me to pass me. But when she came parallel with me, she stopped beside me. I looked down on her over my shoulder and she had a clenched, thoughtful, expression on her lips as she looked ahead. As if she was contemplating whether or not to tell me something else.

"One last advice," she said as she looked forward—seems I read her expression right.

"As if you've given any," I said.

She turned her head, looked at me with those muddy eyes that suddenly seemed clearer than they ought to be, and smiled, "I've given you plenty more than intended," she said with a smile before she turned her head forward again, and looked ahead. "But do be wary of that man."

"Who?" I asked as I turned my head and followed her line of sight and saw, "Vilkas?" I looked at her as she looked in his direction. "Why?" I asked, feeling she wouldn't give a straight answer.

"Because, without realizing it, he speaks truth through irony," she started, "But once he does realize the meaning behind his words, the thing he wants most, he'll lie to you out of selfish reasons—for honor, he'll claim, though his action holds none—and as the horned silhouette takes him away you'll be the one ending up to suffer for it."

Again, I felt nothing but confused as she turned her head to look at me, though this time I hadn't expected to feel any other way. But the look she gave only confused me more, enhanced the suspicious feeling inside me: she gave me a look of pity.

"Well," she said, turning forward "Until next time then, do take care." And she began to walk. "Oh!" she let out and looked over her shoulder as she walked, "And when you do decide to come visit, leave your axe outside, would you? I do so mind the cold," she said before walking off.

My axe? I thought, unconsciously reaching over my shoulder but stopping myself from touching its handle as I caught myself in the act. I watched her blend into the morning crowd that had gathered while we had spoken.

To say I felt confused would now be an understatement, utterly _dumbfound_ was the word. She had made about as much sense as our last talk. But one thing I felt for certain: she knew a lot more than she let on.

I lifted my hands and looked down at them, looked into my palms, saw my scar— _as silver brakes skin, bone and all_ —that part had come true. How much had she seen in these hands of mine? And how little had she chosen to tell?

"Who was that?" Vilkas asked as he approached and I lowered my hands and looked at him.

I sighed as I again looked into the crowds. "I have no idea," I said to his confusion.

"What did she want?"

"Ha," I let out silently, "I have no idea…" I looked at him as he stood, looking more confused than I, "Other than messing with me? You know how Kodlak is all cryptic when he tries to make a point?"

"Aye," he said.

"Well, that woman's worse than Kodlak. Whenever Kodlak spews his wisdom you at least have some idea of what he's getting at, but her," I nodded into the crowd, "I have no idea—It's as if she was trying to make me answer a question I don't know I have."

"Hm," he let out in thought, "I guess you need the question then."

"What's that?" I asked for his comment.

"Well, you can't give the answer if you don't know the question, so first you need to find the question. Perhaps the question will answer itself?"

"Oh, don't you start too," I said annoyed, I've had enough of riddle-solving for a lifetime. "Let's go," I said and headed for the city-gate before he could say another word.

_¨Rhetorical questions are still questions.¨_

_¨Are they though?...¨ ¨...I believe they have more in common with answers, answers in of themselves.¨_

_¨And what answer would that be?¨_

_¨Now isn't that the question?¨_

Need to find the question, eh? Perhaps Vilkas was onto something after all.

_¨Do be wary of that man…¨_

"Have you ever lied to me? Vilkas," I asked as we walked.

"Lies are for condescending fools to cowardly to speak their own mind," he answered.

"That's not an answer," I said, feeling increasingly suspicious for the comment the old lady had made on him, though, I didn't show it.

He gave me a questioning look as we walked before he looked back forward with a thinking face, "Can't say I have. I might bend the truth a bit every now and then, but… I'd never outright lie."

That went along with my experience of him, he might be a manipulative ass every now and then, but never a liar.

"She said you would," I said and looked forward, awaiting his reaction.

"Did she now?" he said before falling quiet for a second or two, "I can't think of any reason why I would?" he finally said, "But it'd have to be for a damn good one."

"Hm," I let out as we approached the gate and hailed for the two guards to open.

We walked down the slope in silence and I looked out over the yellow grass-fields; the farms and wheat-fields stretching far around the foot of the city. It was always windy out here, the city-walls kept the wind away, but once out here it always made itself known with its cold, chilly, and frosty bite. Nagging at my clothes.

"How long do you think it'll be?" I asked Vilkas as we walked.

"Hm?" he let out questioningly as he gave me a look.

"The war," I explained.

"Hm," he let out again, this time in thought, and looked forward, "Well," he began, "The Great War lasted four years. But that was all-out war from beginning to end, this one's more of a rebellion I'd say. It might drag out for a while—guerilla warfare and what-not."

"You think it'll be more than four years?" I said, partially disagreeing and partially admitting not knowing better.

"Well," he said, "It might have a slow start, right now the Empire is recruiting," he gave a nod that made me an example, "And I'm sure the Stormcloaks are doing the same. And once both sides have built up enough strength, they still might take time from afar—sniffing each other from a distance, both waiting for the other side to make the first move before they act."

"Sounds boring," I said, looking forward.

"It's strategic," he explained, "It'd be foolish to act before you know what the other side is up to; an easy way to fall in a trap. But then, of course, if Ulfric was to be assassinated I'd say the war would end in an instance… can't really say the same for whoever is running the show on the Imperial side though."

"How so?"

"Well, Ulfric leads the Stormcloaks, he can't really be replaced, can he? But whoever the Empire sends here to overlook the war, if that person is killed the Empire would most likely simply send a new one. The Empire is too large and powerful not to have people in reserve."

"I guess that makes sense," I said as we finally came to the stables.

"Look," Vilkas said, pointing his finger, "Your carriage is here already."

" _My_ carriage," I scruffed sarcastically.

It was simply a carriage; a wooden box on wheels, that carried wares and vegetables between towns and cities, to claim it was mine was nothing but a jest of humor.

"Good morning," I greeted the driver as we approached.

"'Morn," he tiredly greeted back—probably tired from traveling all night, "You the one coming along? To Solitude?"

"I am," I said and heaved my bag up on one of the seats on the wagon. Handed him some coin before he could ask.

"A'right," he said, "But we're not leaving before an hour or so, I need to get some shut-eye."

"So," Vilkas said as he stood beside the carriage and watched me. "What will you do when it's all over?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. Honestly, I hadn't given it that much thought.

"You're not coming back to the Companions?" he asked. That was obviously the real question he had been fishing for.

I sighed. Again, not something I had given much thought. But once I was signed into the Empire, would they even allow me back? Skjor had served in the Empire, they took him in."I don't know," I said, "Fighting's all I can but…"

"I get it," he said, crossing his arms and looking around, "Can't move on as easily if you come back to us: old wounds and all that."

"That's not…" honestly, I should get angry for what he's hinting at, that's what I usually do. But right now… I suddenly only felt sad.

"But you _are_ coming back, right?" he asked again with a raised eyebrow; a look of concern. I knew that look.

"I'm not leaving to die, Vilkas," I said with a reassuring shake of my head, surely answering the question he had on his mind.

"No," he said agreeing with a soft smile, " _You_ wouldn't be so cowardly as to fall on purpose. There's no honor in that, nor a Sovngarde."

"Right," I said in a low voice, feeling strangely guilty for some reason. Did I feel guilty because I _am_ leaving? Or did I feel guilty because a part of me wouldn't mind if I _did_ die.

"But hey," he continued, "No matter what you decide to do, you'll always be welcome in Jorrvaskr, you know that right. We're family, after all."

Family… No—thinking back—I don't regret joining them, Because they are the family I chose. All of them.

"Always," I answered. The guilt… it _is_ because I'm leaving them.

"You mentioned our last duel," he suddenly said, looking over the fields and then back at me with a smile, "I don't suppose you have the time?"

"If only I had my armor," I answered, feeling a small smile form.

"Hm," he let out with an equal smile.

"You know what," I said as I reached over my shoulder, drew my axe, and heaved it up on the wagon before I turned back at him, "When I **do** come back, I'll give you that duel."

"Is that so," he said gladly, uncrossing his arms to grip his belt-buckle.

"And next time…" I said with a farewell-smile, "Next time I'll win."

"Ha!" he let out in humor, "Only if I let you!"

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked the first chapter, drop a comment if you did!
> 
> I can't say how far off the next chapter is, but I want to release one chapter to my other fic (The Murder of Wayrest) before I start working on the next one.  
> Hopefully, it won't be that long.


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